Page 15

The clock on the wall read seven fifteen. Eight hours since the pool house. Eight hours since Vivienne was taken right out from under him. Eight hours of wasted fucking time .

Saint Mary’s Hospital was icebox cold and packed with people—so much so that, for much of the night, the lobby had been standing room only. Now, in the slowing trickle of an early morning, Thomas sat propped atop a hallway gurney, his patience torn to ribbons, Isaac Shaw’s recorder gripped tight in his fist.

He hadn’t listened to it yet.

Not here, among strangers.

Each time another nurse passed him by, he was met with a discreet but discernible sideways glance. He couldn’t blame them. He looked like he’d been in a back-alley brawl. His shirtfront was stiff with blood. His head was a belfry. It rang and rang. His left earlobe had swollen into a fat cauliflower shape and his left eye was pinched nearly all the way shut. He hardly noticed. His focus was trained on the clock on the wall. On the seconds and minutes and hours that ticked away without end.

He hadn’t wanted to come to the hospital at all, but he’d discovered that Hadley Appelbaum and Frances Lefevre could be almost as persistent as Vivienne when they wanted to be. They’d insisted he be seen, and at the time he’d had little energy to protest.

Eight hours and several stitches later, he was brimming with it. He wanted to hit something. He’d spent the entire night in triage, the panic in his chest slowly coalescing into anger, until he saw everything through a red, ugly haze.

Vivienne was gone. She was gone , and he was sitting here doing nothing.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” A red-haired woman in a white lab coat drew a rolling cart to a stop directly in front of him. “I’m Dr. Rosen. Can you verify your name and date of birth for me?”

“Thomas Walsh,” he ground out, sick of repeating it. “July twenty-third.”

“Excellent, thank you.” She peered up at him over the rim of her reading glasses, her smile affable. “Looks like you’ve had quite the night.”

“I’ve had better.”

“Well, we’ll get you cleaned up.” She clicked through his electronic chart. “I’ve got an X-ray technician coming down any minute to wheel you to radiology.”

He’d required just enough X-rays during his lacrosse days to know he couldn’t afford to swallow the bill. He also knew he’d be waiting hours for results. He didn’t have hours.

“Do I need one?”

“I’d highly recommend it, yes,” said Dr. Rosen. “We have some concern that you may have fractured a rib. An X-ray will help us get a clearer look so we can determine treatment.”

“Can I refuse?”

“It’d be against medical advice to do so, but yes.”

“Okay.” Thomas reached for his jacket. “I’d like to, then. Refuse, I mean.”

Dr. Rosen slid her glasses onto the top of her head and peered up at him with closer scrutiny. “Do you have a parent or guardian here with you?”

“I’m eighteen.”

“A friend, then.”

“No,” bit out Thomas, his patience wearing thin. “I’m on my own. And I’m fine. Really. I’d like to go.”

Dr. Rosen examined him for a moment longer. “I’ll have a nurse draw up the discharge paperwork for you to sign. Hang tight, all right?”

“Sounds good, thanks.”

The moment Dr. Rosen was out of sight, Thomas slid off the gurney and snatched his jacket, wincing at the sharp bite of pain in his middle. A small cough drew his gaze to a bowed old man in a wheelchair. He sat with a flannel blanket across his lap, his wife dozing in the seat beside him.

“I saw nothing ,” said the man with a wink.

Thomas grinned. “Thanks.”

Out in the waiting room, he was startled to find Hadley and Frankie waiting by the door. They cornered him the moment he appeared, talking one over the other. Like him, both of them were still dressed in their clothes from the gala, fabric spattered in orange and pink fill. While he’d taken hit after hit in the pool house, the rest of the party had been subjected to a paintball raid. A prank. The blame was attributed to students from a neighboring public school—a handful of townies who’d never gotten along with Hudson Turner and his ilk.

But why would they have taken Vivienne?

It didn’t make sense.

“The ride here was enough,” he said, elbowing past Frankie on his way toward the door. “You didn’t need to stay.”

“We didn’t stay for you,” said Hadley, falling into step behind him. “Vivienne’s in trouble.”

“You think?” It came out acerbic.

“Nobody’s seen her since the party,” added Hadley, lifting her skirts to jog alongside him. “ Thomas. Did you hear what I said?”

Thomas pushed through the revolving door and into the broad heat of the morning. Down the road, several cabs were waiting. He made his way toward them, fishing for his wallet. In his pocket, his phone rang.

“Thomas,” called Hadley. “Walsh, wait! This is serious. We need to talk to you.”

He silenced his phone and rounded on Hadley, so that she was forced to draw up short.

“I was there, okay?” The ache in his chest was excruciating. “I was with her when those assholes took her. So, you don’t need to tell me Vivienne is missing, because I already know. I know, and it’s my fault. I need to get back to the house and tell her parents what happened, and then I need to call the police.”

“You’d be wasting your time,” said Frankie. “Vivienne’s stepfather isn’t filing a missing persons report.”

Thomas froze. “What?”

“My dad met with him down at the station this morning,” said Hadley. “Philip told him she went home early. He fed him this whole story about how she wasn’t feeling well, and so her mom took her back to the house early on in the night.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“You don’t think we know that? He’s lying .”

“So tell your dad the truth,” bit out Thomas.

“I tried. He didn’t listen. He said I’m sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong—”

“She does tend to do that,” deadpanned Frankie.

“—and that I need to leave the Farrows alone.” Hadley fired off a scathing look in Frankie’s direction. “Apparently, Philip said she’s been grieving the loss of her ‘boyfriend.’”

“Donahue wasn’t her boyfriend,” said Thomas sharply.

“You think we don’t know that?” asked Hadley. “That’s why we’re here. Something is wrong .”

Dread threaded through him in wire-thin filaments. In his pocket, his phone was ringing again. He fished it out, hoping desperately that it would be Vivienne’s name on the screen. Instead, it was his fraternity president, calling for the fifth time in as many minutes.

“Shit,” he said. “Give me a second.”

“Walsh.” Colton Price’s voice trickled pleasantly over the phone. He didn’t sound like he’d been repeatedly trying to get in touch with Thomas for the past twenty-four hours. “You’re a difficult person to get ahold of.”

“I’ve been busy,” said Thomas, with a glance at Hadley and Frankie. They were shepherding him across the parking lot—herding him away from the taxi stand and toward the visitors’ garage. He gave in and let them lead him. “What’s up?”

“It’s kind of a long story,” said Colton.

“Make it a short story.”

“Touchy. Noted. I’ll skip to the end—does the name Mikhail Popov mean anything to you?”

“No,” said Thomas as Hadley ushered him into the back seat of a spotless silver Lexus.

“Try not to bleed on the leather,” she whispered as Colton asked, “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” He reached for the seat belt. “Can I be honest with you? This doesn’t feel like an emergency.”

“I never said it was,” said Colton, affronted.

“You called me twenty-seven times.”

“That many?”

“Look, I’m kind of in the middle of something. I’ll have to call you—”

“What about Vivienne Farrow?”

His seat belt snapped into place. “Where did you hear that name?”

It was a beat before Colton replied. In the background, Thomas could hear a girl whispering something in a murmur.

“Got it,” said Colton. “I’ll ask him. Walsh, are you at all familiar with an organization known as the House of Hades?”

···

The Farrow house loomed larger than ever as Thomas stood on the front doorstep and braced himself to go inside. In his pocket, Isaac Shaw’s recorder felt as heavy as an anvil.

He hadn’t listened to it. Not yet.

But he already knew what he’d hear.

I’ll do some digging, he’d told Colton Price. I’ll call you back when I know more.

Colton had been vague about his sources over the phone, but he’d talked about the House of Hades like it was some sort of club. A club Vivienne was connected to. It didn’t make sense—not to Thomas—but if anyone could help him connect the dots, it would be his employer.

Philip had lied to the police. He’d sent them away.

What kind of parent did that when their only child was missing?

Philip Farrow was hiding something, Thomas was certain of it.

And if Colton was right, it had to do with this mysterious club.

The inside of the house was as quiet as a tomb. His footfalls echoed like thunder.

He’d nearly reached the office when Philip called out, “Walsh? Is that you? We’re in here.”

Steeling his resolve, Thomas stepped into the room. Amelia was already there, looking frailer than ever in a white sheath dress and matching stilettos, her trembling fingers wrapped around a vodka tonic. Philip sat across from her in his broad leather chair, watching a thin trail of smoke rise from the end of a cigar. Strewn across the desk in front of him were teeth.

Human teeth.

Baby teeth.

A number of white molars and tiny incisors had been shaken up and spilled like playing dice. A sterling snuffbox sat upended in the mess. Slowly, Philip set the box to rights.

“I fear you and I had a misunderstanding,” he said. “Did I or did I not tell you that Vivienne has some difficulties at night?”

Thomas swallowed. “You did, sir.”

“And remind me—did I ask you to keep her within your sight at all times?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I thought.” Philip tipped his cigar into an ashtray. “When I give you a directive, I expect it to be followed to the letter.”

“With all due respect,” said Thomas, “Vivienne asked me to give her privacy.”

“Did she?” Philip’s eyes went wide as saucers. “Well, it’s a good thing you listened. Thanks to you, my daughter is gone. Shaw is in the hospital. He’s been spewing nonsense ever since they found him. You’d better hope to whatever god you believe in that he doesn’t start making sense.”

“And what if he does?” Thomas knew he was only digging himself a deeper hole, pushing like this. He dug it anyway. “I’d be interested to hear what Isaac Shaw has to say to the police.”

Philip shot to his feet as though electrocuted. “You have some nerve—”

“He’d say it was Vivienne who did that to him, wouldn’t he?”

Silence fell like an axe. Across the desk, Philip took a steadying breath. “You don’t have the first clue what you’re talking about.”

“What is she?”

Amelia Farrow let out an audible whimper.

“What is she?” Philip mocked. “You think you’re clever? You think you’ve uncovered some great conspiracy? She’s missing , is what she is. And whatever happens to her from this point forward falls squarely on your shoulders.”

Guilt had been gathering pressure inside Thomas ever since he first slammed back into his senses on the pool house floor. Now it came surging to the surface with volcanic force. He stood his ground, refusing to be cowed.

“The day you hired me, you told me you’d been worried Vivienne was hanging out with a bad crowd. You didn’t tell me that crowd was part of a group called the House of Hades.”

All the blood drained from Philip’s face. “Who have you been speaking to?”

He’d been shooting from the hip, but from the look in Philip’s eyes, he’d hit his target. So Colton’s intel had been solid. There was a connection. The barest wick of triumph lit in Thomas’s chest.

“It’s like you said, sir—once you’re part of a brotherhood, you’re always a part. What was your exact wording?” He snapped his fingers. “Oh yeah—you can’t buy that kind of loyalty.”

The air in the room felt suddenly tight, Philip’s anger a pulsing, palpable presence.

“Philip,” whispered Amelia, rising to her feet, “you don’t think she could be looking for—”

“She doesn’t have the first clue what she’s looking for,” ground out Philip. “She’s a reckless, disobedient fool, and her actions will ruin us all.”

“But Christian is—”

Before she could finish, Philip let out a hideous curse and cleared everything off his desk with one broad sweep of his arm. Glass and teeth alike went shattering to the floor. Unclipped documents flew skyward in a paper flurry. By the time they fluttered to the ground, Philip had managed to quell a portion of his rage.

“Don’t ever say that name in my house,” he warned, jabbing a finger in Amelia’s face. She stood frozen like a hare, her bottom lip quivering. To Thomas, he said, “You’re fired.”

“Don’t bother,” said Thomas. “I quit.”

Philip’s laugh came out cold. “You think you’re so honorable. Don’t forget—you signed an airtight NDA. You talk to anyone—the police, your family, your friends—and I’ll drag you to court. You have an hour to pack. And then I want you out of my house.”

With that said, Philip stalked out of the office. The door shut with a slam. Thomas and Amelia Farrow were left alone. On the floor, the scattered teeth gleamed like little white opals.

“Philip isn’t a monster,” said Amelia, in a voice nearly too soft to hear. “I know he seems like it, but he cares a great deal about Vivienne. More than her biological father ever did.”

Thomas didn’t know what to say to that, and so he opted to say nothing at all. The silence expanded between them like a balloon.

“He was a lawyer, too,” she went on softly, once the lull became uncomfortable. “They were managing partners, actually. It sounds like the makings of a soap opera, to talk about it now. But the truth was, Philip stepped up when Vivienne’s father refused. He’s a good man.”

Again, Thomas said nothing. His anger was as sharp as a barb. It hurt to breathe. Vivienne’s mother flashed him a watery smile.

“You’re just a boy. That’s what I told Philip, when he first wanted to hire you. I said, ‘He’s only a boy, and he’s not equipped to deal with what’s happening here.’”

“And what is happening, exactly?”

Her eyes darted to the door. She wrung her hands, diamonds winking on every ring but one. On that one sat a pale-milk stone, slightly uneven. He didn’t know anything about jewelry. If anyone had asked before today, he’d have guessed the stone was a pearl. Now he could plainly see that it was the polished crown of a molar.

A child’s milk tooth, neatly set in white-gold prongs.

His stomach turned over.

“You heard my husband,” said Amelia, tucking the ring quickly out of sight. “We no longer require your services. I’m sorry it happened this way, but you should leave. Now, before things get worse.”

···

The moment Thomas was alone in the guest room, he took out Shaw’s recorder and set it on the desk. It took him several minutes to garner the courage to listen to it. He took a shower in the interim, wincing at the icy spit of water against his injuries. When it was done, he toweled himself dry and pulled on a pair of shorts, contemplating the recorder as if it were a ticking bomb.

If he was going to go after Vivienne, he had to know what he was dealing with.

He pressed the button. The first several seconds were static.

Then, Shaw: “Miss Farrow, before we begin, I’d like to start by saying how sincerely sorry I am—”

Thomas fumbled with the settings, fast-forwarding until he heard his own voice, distant and tight: “What are you, the police?”

Tugging on a T-shirt, he let the recording play. He heard himself and Vivienne leave the room. A long stretch of silence followed, interspersed with the sound of a turning page, the scratch of a pencil against paper. He pulled on his sneakers and listened, waiting for Vivienne to return alone.

“I think this will be easier,” said Shaw just as Thomas finished knotting his laces. “ You can use my notepad to jot down your responses, how about that?”

Fabric rustled. Something dropped to the floor. And then—in a voice nearly too quiet to discern—there was Vivienne: “I don’t want to hurt you. It’s important to me that you know that.”

Thomas snatched the recorder off the desk and held it to his ear just as Shaw let out a startled, “Excuse me?”

“It’s just that I don’t have a choice,” said Vivienne. She sounded desperate. Entreating. Afraid. In the background, something heavy thudded against the floor. A body, collapsing. “I have to do what I’m told, or else it hurts all over.”

Thomas’s insides went cold. On the recorder, Shaw made a sound like a wounded calf.

“Do you feel it, too?” asked Vivienne. “It’s unbearable, isn’t it?”

“Please,” begged Shaw. “Whatever you’re doing, please stop.”

“But I can’t,” said Vivienne. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

The recording crackled just as Shaw began to scream. It was followed by a thud—the same sound that had first drawn Thomas into the room. Stomach sick, he clicked it off and dropped the device to the floor, crushing it under the heel of his shoe until he felt it snap.

When he’d discarded the pieces, he took out his phone and placed a call.

“I had a feeling I’d be hearing from you sooner rather than later,” said Colton, answering on the very first ring. “Did you learn anything?”

“Kind of. That girl you mentioned on the call—”

“Vivienne Farrow?”

“Yeah.” Thomas swallowed around a lump in his throat. “You were right. About the House of Hades, I mean. Her stepfather knows something. He didn’t say a whole lot, but I could tell. And Vivienne—well, she’s missing. I think she’s in trouble. She’s not—”

The words rattled in his head. Not human. Not human.

He didn’t say them aloud. Instead, he said, “I need help.”

“We’re more than halfway to Connecticut,” said Colton.

“You’re— Really?”

“Sure,” said Colton. “What’s the point of a fraternity if you can’t call in a favor every now and again? Text me the address; we’ll be there within the hour.”