Page 41 of Unmasking Mayhem (Behind the Mask Duet #2)
nineteen
missing
a week later
Hawk (“Crow”)
The Way: Ariana Grande, Mac Miller
T he smoke from the blunt caresses my lips, numbing them as it billows into the frosty air, winter's full embrace surrounding us.
Raze and I sit on Whitney's balcony for the first time in days, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. No one has spoken to Whitney since that dreadful night when King forced her to take Carter’s life, and our concern has only deepened.
King remains unfazed, but the rest of us are weighed down by worry.
While Red spirals somewhere with a bottle of whiskey and enough drugs to keep him high for days, Raze and I can’t shake the fear that something has happened to Whitney.
She isn’t answering her phone or the door, and every entrance we once used to sneak inside is now mysteriously boarded up.
Even Boston has been absent, held captive by King at the club.
Today, however, we’re about to hopefully find out the truth.
With King and D on their way to Rhode Island for some business, Boston is making her way over here to let us in, and the wait is fucking excruciating.
The anticipation wraps around my throat like a noose, and I’m desperate for a moment to breathe.
The sound of footsteps crunching against the gravel below pulls me from my thoughts.
My heart races, and I exchange a glance with Raze.
He crooks a finger toward me, urging me to silence as we strain to hear.
Boston's familiar cough echoes through the quiet winter landscape, a sound that feels so out of place in the dark atmosphere that surrounds us.
Moments later, she appears at the edge of the balcony, her blonde hair catching the pale sunlight like a halo.
"Hey," she whispers, as if afraid to break the spell of silence that envelops us. The light in her eyes dims slightly when she sees our expressions. "You guys look like hell."
"Yeah, well… It’s hard to relax when we don’t know if Whitney’s okay," I reply, the frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. "Why hasn't she reached out? What the hell is happening up there?"
Boston shuffles her feet, the wooden boards creaking beneath her. “She hasn’t moved much since the—” Boston stops short, catching herself, and instead looks away, tracing her fingers along the side of the railing. "I think she’s just… in a bad place. You know how she gets."
“She needs to talk to us,” Raze adds, his voice steady but thick with concern. "If we don’t check on her now, I’m afraid King will decide to use that time to… I don’t know, do something worse."
Boston nods, biting her lip. "I can get us in, but we have to be quick. I don’t want to be here when King gets back."
With a final glance back at the skyline, I step into the chill of the air, grounding myself against the wave of dread that washes over me. “Let’s go, then,” I say firmly, the sense of urgency eclipsing my earlier fear.
As we head inside through the back entrance Boston managed to pry open, I feel the scent of stale air hit me like a wall.
The apartment is just as I remembered it—walls covered in the affections of laughter and memories, now tainted by the heaviness of the silence.
But it’s not the apartment that demands my attention; it's the hollow absence of Whitney's presence that looms.
"Whit?" Boston calls softly as she leads the way down the dim hallway. The floorboards creak under our feet, amplifying the unease in my gut.
"Here," I murmur, pushing my anxiety down into the pit of my stomach. "We have to check her room."
In a hushed urgency, we make our way down the hall, stopping just outside her door.
I glance at Raze, who nods, and together we push the door open, a cloud of dust dancing in the filtered light.
Her room is a still life of disarray—clothes strewn across the floor, the remnants of her favorite books left open to pages she no longer cared to read.
Her drawers were pulled out and dumped, belongings thrown around the room.
But Whitney… she isn't here . My heart sinks as I scan the dark corners of the room, hoping against hope for a hint of her presence.
"Whitney!" Boston calls again, more desperately this time.
Nothing .
We frantically search the apartment from top to bottom and find no sign of Whitney, which only puts us on edge even more.
But as we make our way back to the living room, flipping on the light, my foot kicks something tossed on the floor.
Looking down, I recognize it as Whitney's cell phone, and my heart plummets to my feet; she never goes anywhere without it.
I reach down to pick it up, catching the attention of both Boston and Raze, and the same look washes over their faces.
With a lump in my throat, I sit on the couch, grasping her phone tightly in my hand, trying to summon the courage to open it and see if there's anything useful in her once lifeline.
"You don't think Dustin..." Raze’s voice trails off, but I know what he was about to say. "What if Dustin got to her?" Raze asks, panic etched in his features.
I shake my head, a knot forming behind my eyes. “No, no, it can’t be him. Not after everything… We’ve dealt with enough.”
My fingers tremble as I press the power button.
The screen lights up, illuminating a few scattered notifications.
My breath hitching in my throat, I swipe to unlock it, praying that whatever I find won’t be as terrifying as the possibilities spiraling in my mind.
The first thing I see is a missed text from Carter, timestamped at midnight just two nights ago.
We need to talk.
My chest tightens, the weight of his words sitting heavily upon my heart. I scroll down, my eyes scanning each message; nothing seems out of the ordinary until I notice a thread with someone labeled
“D.”
My gut twists as I tap on it. The messages are sparse but alarming. Choppy conversations echoing with threats and secrets that don’t belong in Whitney’s world.
Just do it, Whit. You fucking owe me.
I feel Raze hovering behind me, peering over my shoulder as the gravity of the situation pulls him in. “What does it say?” he whispers, his voice a haunting echo that blends seamlessly with my rising dread.
“She… she’s been talking to him ,” I say slowly, each word shattering the fragile hope that we’ve harbored. “Dustin's been in her head. I think he’s been manipulating her again.”
Boston grips the back of the couch like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. “We have to get her back. We can’t let him take her again.” The steel in her voice seems to sharpen the air around us, lending just enough resolve to push me forward.
With a trembling hand, I scroll deeper, finding images, snapshots of her unease captured in the moments before she withdrew completely. A photo of herself, eyes stained with fear, and a message shared with no replies:
“I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”
The reminder of her pain hits me with a frenzy.
“Jesus, Whitney,” I whisper, the hurt spilling from my heart and clawing at the edges of my resolve. “What have you gotten yourself into?”
Just then, I catch a glimpse of something—a calendar event marked with an apartment location. My pulse quickens as I realize she was helpful enough to give us a lead, whether knowing it or not.
“We're too late,” I murmur, understanding it at last, the answer thrumming like a battle drum in my veins. “He's got her.”
Boston’s eyes widen. “We have to go. We have to find her.”
I stand up, urgency igniting the fire in my belly. “Raze, grab the fucking keys. We’re heading out.”
He nods, determination pushing through the shock momentarily stalling him. We rush to the door, adrenaline surging, but as I make my way through the hallway, another chill runs down my spine.
“Wait,” Boston calls out suddenly. A sudden chill snaps me to a halt. “What if Dustin knows we’re coming? What if he has a trap set up?”
I shake my head, feeling anger rear its head as I turn back to face her. "He probably does, but we can’t think like that. We have to follow through—Whitney needs us. If we think too much, we’ll fucking lose her."
“Fine, but let’s at least prepare ourselves for a fight. Dustin won’t hesitate to use violence to keep her under his thumb. We need some backup,” Raze suggests, his eyes scanning the remnants of Whitney’s apartment for anything that might offer us an advantage.
With grim determination, we gather a few items—whatever we can find that feels like it's enough to defend ourselves.
A baseball bat, some old, rusting brass knuckles from Whitney's kitchen, and her gun—the one she carries everywhere .
I feel fucking sick. I feel frozen to the floor until Raze punches my shoulder to bring me back to our terrifying reality; Dustin has Whitney back under his control, but this time I know he won't hesitate to kill her and end it once and for all.
As we step outside into the night, the air crackles with tension. The city feels alive and indifferent, as if it knows what’s about to unfold. I take a deep breath, inhaling the cold and letting it ground me in the moment.
“Alright, let’s roll,” I say, my voice unwavering.
With each step we take toward our destination, a sense of inevitability forms around us.
The darkness is calling, and tonight, we're gonna answer the call with violence and retribution. We’re going to take back what was stolen from us and put an end to the horror Whitney's been dealing with for too fucking long.