Page 60 of Promise of Destruction (Destruction & Vengeance Duet #1)

fifty-six

Declan

Rhea Boudreaux is, obviously, Remington’s sister. They share the same shade of golden brown skin, the same eyes.

When I feed her image through the software, I expect it will pull up all traces of Remington as well, since their facial structure is close enough.

But I don’t get a single hit based off of her Oregon driver’s license photo, so I switch to her passport photo. It’s not as recent, making it the less viable option, but it’s better than a random selfie with a filter that will obscure the points of her face I need to map if I want to find her.

The cursor blinks an inordinate amount of time as it processes the photo and then returns a dialog box: NO MATCHES.

“That’s not possible.” I mutter, clicking the mouse to set the program to run again.

Remington Boudreaux’s cellar looks like something out of a thriller movie where the FBI gets involved to bring down a serial killer.

There’s no less than twelve screens on the wall, large televisions mounted to the drywall, each one of them relaying a different feed—security cameras in various places around his house, pointed at doors and entries.

Every one of them is static at the moment, fuzzy without anything visible going on in any of them.

Soren sits next to me, clearly confused, and also clearly frightened. I’ve been cryptic with her because I don’t want her to do or say anything that may implicate her in all of this. No doubt she’s wondering why she’s here, what I’m even doing, how I got myself involved with these sort of people.

“Can you take my computer out of the bag?” I ask her, nodding at the one I left between us as the same prompt reappears on the screen.

I type her name, but nothing comes back for Rhiannon Boudreaux or Rhea Boudreaux, so I type in Boudreaux, without filtering it down, knowing it will return thousands of results between all the family members.

But it doesn’t.

“Someone has definitely blocked your access.” I say, more to myself than to Dimitri, who’s hovering impatiently behind me. “The question is, did they block only your access or only your access to this name?”

Soren turns to me expectantly. “Password?”

“Roxyblue72, capital R.” I tell her without missing a beat.

Soren stares at me a moment, and then a small laugh slips out of her. “What?”

“What?” I say back, shrugging.

“This sounds like a bad porn site name.”

I raise a brow, challenging her to tell me how she knows what sort of porn site screenname would be a good one.

“Is Roxy your favorite whore?” She teases, trying not to smile as she types the combination I instructed her to.

“No,” I laugh. “Roxy is my favorite bitch. You are my favorite whore.”

I feel her stiffen, see her cheeks tinge red in the darkness. My cock stirs at her discomfort, but Dimitri is behind me, watching expectantly.

I don’t know what makes me type Tony’s name into the cursor field, other than that I don’t want to put her name in there and take the chance of pulling up anything that will pique Dimitri’s interest. It’s likely if they have locked the Boudreaux name, all of their associates have also been removed from the system, so I type in the first person I think of that I wouldn’t mind seeing wiped off the face of the earth.

Soren is too busy setting up my computer to see when the results come back.

I already knew he had a rap sheet a mile long, but I never imagined some of the charges I see when I scroll through his information.

I also don’t expect all the photos that appear at first—stills taken from the internet, links to videos, security footage and cell-phone uploads alike.

There’s quite a few of him, actually, where his face is captured by the camera, tilted toward the sky, his fat features twisted in pleasure.

I click quickly through the results that come from video footage, one after another.

Most of the bodies under him aren’t visible, but they’re all clearly flat on their backs with him on top of them, unmoving, possibly drugged.

I feel Dimitri’s eyes burn a hole through the side of my neck, but he remains thankfully quiet as I quickly close out of the results and delete his listing from the search history.

I focus on Soren again. If I can access Boudreaux from my computer, I’ll know that someone just blocked their access to those results. If I can’t find it on my personal program, it means someone has extricated them entirely from the code, which means I’ll have to write them back into it.

When she looks at me from behind the laptop screen, her mouth is open, her eyes wide.

My mistake hits me all at once; I forgot to close out of the search I was running on the plane.

The search that details all the sordid things her husband did before he died.