Page 27 of Web of Lies
Riley
I shove a fry into my mouth, eyes glued to the two screens in front of me.
On my personal laptop, Evelyn's wedding mood board is open.
Normally, I couldn't care less about all the frilly, cheesy things she dreams of for her big day.
But here I am, clicking through flower arrangements, bridesmaid dresses, and fabric swatches, half-focused yet fully present.
This isn't about me—it's about her. And for her, I'd scroll through a hundred satin swatches, a hundred color palettes, and still not complain.
She's been dreaming about this day since the moment we met, and she's never made a secret of what she wants out of life: to fall in love, have a fairytale wedding, and start a family, just like in all the romantic movies we've watched together over the years. I used to think that was silly. Even na?ve. Nowadays, though, I admire her for it. She was one of the Hunt Corp.’s best killers.
She can kill someone in cold blood without batting an eye, yet she always finds the positive in life.
That's what fascinated me about her when I first joined Hunt.
It wasn't just her strength; it was her ability to see the good in people and believe in it, despite all the terrible things she witnessed on a daily basis.
My gaze shifts to the second laptop beside me.
On this one, something entirely different is happening—something much more unsettling and terrible.
When I finally got home after dealing with Kyle, I launched a wide-scale search across both the public web and the dark net, and the device is still actively running it.
It has been combing through data nonstop, collecting everything related to the Butcher that it can locate.
The progress bar is stuck at seventy-four percent, yet nothing remotely useful has turned up. I've only found mentions on old forums filled with rumors. People either talk about him as if he were a creepy pasta told to scare children or as if they are obsessively fascinated by his actions.
But I have this nagging gut feeling that I'm close to learning who he is. Why else would he have been so adamant about getting the folder back I found at the restaurant? There must be a clue in there that will direct me in the right direction.
My gaze shifts to the burner phone on my cluttered desk, surrounded by a stack of prepaid SIM cards.
I've run every scan I could, tracked the calls, and traced which cell towers the devices pinged when active.
The burner was always connected to one station near the restaurant.
However, the numbers it dialed stretched across the city, sometimes to other burners and sometimes to payphones.
I reviewed the city's security footage and searched for cameras near those locations, but the calls are too old, and the footage is no longer available.
Taking my eyes off my phone, I focus on the folder that stores the data from the web. I click through the latest additions, looking for anything that looks relevant or, at the very least, makes sense.
But then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of movement.
My gaze darts to my desk, where a little fuzzy, brown-and-black-striped jumping spider scurries across a stack of papers, heading in my direction.
Every now and then, she stops and waves her tiny arms like a toddler who wants to be picked up.
"Mocha, not again," I sigh and place my hand, palm up, on the desk in her line of sight.
Without hesitation, she crawls into my palm, the hairs on her tiny legs prickling against my skin.
Ever since I got her the new terrarium, she keeps finding ways to slip out of it.
Each time I think I've fixed the last crack she was using, she finds yet another.
It must feel like a game to her, and honestly, I'm not even mad.
I push myself to my feet and walk to my bedroom, where Mocha's terrarium sits on the shelf.
Lifting the lid, I lower her onto one of the branches.
She doesn't hesitate, crawling upward as if she already knows the routine.
I slip my hand back and let the lid click shut.
"Now stay inside. I'll fix the hole later," I say with a small smile as she waves her tiny arms at me again before I turn on my heel and head for the kitchen.
I fetch a bottle of water from the fridge and a container of wingless fruit flies from the cabinet hoping the food will keep her entertained and safely inside her enclosure for a while.
The sudden, sharp rattle of metal cuts through the quiet night in my apartment.
The sound is all too familiar and sounds too close to home.
Without a doubt, it's the sound of tools scraping against metal, followed by the stutter of a lock being tampered with.
My stomach twists, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I step into the hallway, and my eyes are drawn to the front door.
The handle jerks once. Then again. Followed by the lock rattling in its frame.
My breath catches, and my heart pounds hard against my ribs as hot adrenaline floods my system.
Without a second thought, I drop the bottle and the container of flies, grab my sneakers, and sprint straight to the living room.
While putting on my shoes, I slip one arm into my jacket and shut both laptops, grabbing the one running the search.
Throwing my phone and wallet into my jacket pocket, I dash toward the window that leads to the fire escape.
Right as I raise the window and slide one leg out, my front door bursts open, slamming into the wall with a loud crack.
My eyes meet those of a man dressed in all black, including a mask that hides his identity.
"Stop." A deep voice calls out, and he raises his pistol, aiming at me.
My instincts take over, and I hurl myself through the window.
A high-pitched scream rips from my throat as the echo of a gunshot rings through the air and shatters the window behind me into a hail of shards.
Without wasting a second, I crawl toward the fire ladder, my palms scraping against the frame.
I slide down the narrow fire escape leading to the street. The metal structure vibrates as the man climbs through the window and charges after me. At the lowest level, I release the last ladder section and scramble down.
The second my feet hit the pavement, I bolt, sprinting down the empty sidewalk toward the bustling main street. Clutching my laptop to my chest with one arm, I reach for my phone with the other.
"Hey, Atlas. Call Sidekick." I say, and the screen flickers on.
"Calling Sidekick," the mechanical voice replies, and the screen switches to a call with Kyle. The phone rings once, twice, and then a third time.
"Come on, pick up." I curse under my breath. Thankfully, the call connects, and Kyle's voice echoes from the other end.
"I didn't expect you to call this late, Freckles. Already missing me?"
"Shut up." I hiss between ragged breaths, lungs burning as I force my legs to keep going. I don't know if he's still behind me, but I'm not about to risk a look. Horror movies drilled one rule into me: the second you look back, you're dead.
"What's going on?" His playful tone vanishes, replaced by a more serious one.
"You need to come pick me up. Someone broke into my apartment."
"Okay, share your live location. I'll be there as fast as I can," Kyle says without hesitation. "Want me to stay on the line?"
"No, I'll find a safe place to wait. Just hurry. Please." I beg, my voice cracking.
"I'm already on my way," he says, followed by a muffled rustling of movement on the other line before the call cuts.
One of the few all-night pizza places in my neighborhood catches my eye. The moment I slip into the shop, I am hit by the warmth and smell of melted cheese. I scoot into the far corner and fumble with my phone, sending Kyle my live location.
A couple of college students laugh over a greasy box while the guy behind the counter looks at me with raised brows, clearly puzzled by the commotion.
"Sorry, things have been hectic." I offer him an apologetic smile and step past the other customers waiting for their food.
"One cheese pizza, please." I pull my wallet out of my pocket, pay, and slip between the other people waiting.
Every now and then, I steal a glance behind me, looking for the man who is following me or Kyle's SUV.
Roughly ten minutes later, the bell over the pizza shop door jingles, and none other than Kyle steps up to the shop's door and pulls it open. He's wearing a loose hoodie and sweats. His hair is a mess, and the scruff on his face is overdue for a trim.
"Riley?" he calls out, his gaze searching the shop. Pushing past another customer, I meet him halfway and wrap my arms around his middle. "You're safe now," he says, his hand landing on top of my head and threading through my hair.
"Thanks for coming," I mutter, my voice muffled as I press my face into his chest.
"Of course. I parked a little down the street. Let's get you out of here."
"Pizza for Hayes," the guy behind the counter calls, and Kyle perks up.
"Here," he says, snagging the box from the guy before guiding me toward the door, one arm wrapped around me, keeping me secure by his side.
"What an odd time to order pizza," he teases, a playful grin tugging at his lips.
"Shut up." I give him a gentle nudge with my elbow. "They were already staring at me. I had to order something or they would have kicked me out."
"That makes sense." He gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.