Page 6 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost (Nightfall Syndicate #2)

"Just work..." I mumble, dabbing at the spill. "The café needs me to come in early tomorrow."

I excuse myself from the table, gathering empty plates to escape the pressure. The kitchen offers temporary sanctuary, its familiar white tiles and humming stainless steel appliances a welcome break from the interrogation in the dining room.

The stack of plates clatters as I set them beside the sink. My phone burns in my pocket, but I resist checking it. Whatever Asher's doing will have to wait until I can slip away properly.

The information waiting to be analyzed buzzes in my brain, a nagging sensation I can't ignore. It's like having numbers and code scratching just beneath my consciousness, begging to be sorted and understood.

"Need a hand?"

I turn to find Kuya Migs rolling up his sleeves, blue tie loosened, doctor-mode temporarily switched off.

"Sure. You wash, I'll dry?" I hand him the dish soap, grateful for the company.

We fall into a comfortable rhythm, the sound of running water and clinking dishes creating a barrier between us and the family chatter beyond the kitchen door. Through the pass- through window, I can see Mom refilling wine glasses while Dad flashes photos of Jinky's law firm on his phone.

"So," Kuya Migs says casually, keeping his voice low as he scrubs a stubborn spot on a serving platter, "you're still working the trafficking cases, aren't you?"

The plate I'm drying nearly slips from my fingers. "How did—"

"I'm not completely clueless, Nessa." His expression softens. "You forget I was the one who found you coding at 3 AM when you were twelve."

"I thought everyone believed the coffee shop story."

"Mom and Dad want to. It's easier." He hands me a clean glass. "I've been seeing girls in the ER... escorts with suspicious injuries, all from the same escort service."

My pulse quickens. "What kind of injuries?"

"Nothing that screams abuse at first glance. Sprained wrists, bruised ribs. But it's their behavior that concerns me." He lowers his voice further. "Rehearsed stories. Fear responses to authority."

The dish towel twists in my hands. "Signs of control."

"Exactly. And the medications we find in their systems..." He shakes his head. "Designer compounds that don't show up on standard tox screens. I had to send samples to a specialized lab."

My thoughts connect like electrical currents. The same sophisticated chemical markers I'd found in Jenny's toxicology report—compounds that shouldn't exist in commercial pharmaceuticals.

"These aren't street workers, Nessa." Migs touches my arm, his fingers still damp from dishwater. "These girls have expensive clothes, professional makeup. It's like they're being prepped for high-end clientele. Custom-built merchandise."

A chill spreads through my chest. Asher's perfect cover story flashes through my mind.

Flawless but fabricated.

Could he be connected to this? The polished victims Kuya Migs describes mirror the sleek control I sensed in Asher.

"How many have you seen?" I question, my fingers automatically darting toward my cell before I deliberately return them to the soapy dishes.

"Six in the past three months. All between eighteen and twenty-five."

Just like the women Jenny was tracking before her accident, the one I never believed was random. My stomach tightens with the same knot it forms when I uncover something that confirms my worst suspicions.

I turn away from my brother to stare out the kitchen window into the darkness. The alert feels even more urgent now.

What if Asher's movement is connected to these women?

"I noticed something else about those girls..." Miguel adds quietly.

He leans closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "Several had the same unusual injection sites—subconjunctival spaces under their eyelids, between scalp layers hidden by hair, the intercostal spaces between ribs."

My skin prickles. The room suddenly feels colder despite the steam rising from the sink.

"Like someone with medical training?" I pick up another plate, trying to keep my hands busy while my thoughts race at triple speed, already matching this information against known trafficking techniques in my databases.

"Exactly. Places that wouldn't show during standard examinations or casual encounters with clients." His eyes narrow. "Locations you'd only know from advanced anatomy training."

My throat tightens. "Sedatives?"

"More sophisticated than that." Migs rinses a glass with careful movements. "Compounds designed to make them compliant without appearing drugged. Some sort of autonomic system suppressant mixed with a mood stabilizer. The kind of pharmaceutical knowledge that goes beyond street chemists."

I set down the dish towel, my fingers tingling with the need to get to my laptop, to run these details through my databases. The same tingles I feel when I'm close to cracking a complex security system.

"I have names," he murmurs, "three victims who might talk to someone they trust. Not police."

The kitchen light flickers briefly, casting shifting shadows across his worried face. In the dining room, laughter erupts over dessert as Tito Ramon tells another exaggerated story about his college days.

"Text them to me." My voice sounds strange to my own ears, too intense.

My phone buzzes against my hip again. The second alert.

"You okay?" Kuya Migs' eyes narrow, professional demeanor replacing brotherly concern. "Is this too much?"

"No, I'm fine."

My thoughts split in two directions, trafficking victims with surgical injection marks versus imagining Asher's hands.

Would those steady fingers be administering those injections or fighting against them?

The muscles between my shoulder blades tighten into the same configuration they adopt during high-risk hacks. My body is preparing for a digital battle.

"I need their medical records." I force my thoughts back to the victims. "I know that's asking a lot, but this could mean their lives." He just nods.

Yet, as Miguel outlined the control mechanisms used on these women, I wonder about Asher's role. Is he part of this network? A victim of it? A hunter like me?

I glance down at my phone as it lights up with another notification. My pulse quickens as I see that Asher Cross is leaving San Francisco, heading back towards Sacramento. My program worked perfectly, tracking him through security cameras, toll transponders, and credit card purchases.

The data tells a story: he's returning to my territory, back to where I can monitor him closely.

Tomorrow I'll be just a barista again, serving him coffee with a smile while secretly dismantling his carefully constructed identity, piece by piece. The hunter and the hunted, separated only by the steam from an espresso machine.

My program pings one final time with his exact coordinates. He's crossed the Bay Bridge, accelerating toward Sacramento. Back to my hunting ground.

For the first time in years, my typically scattered thoughts crystalize around a single point of fascination: Asher Cross.