I look down at my hands like a scolded child. After Satan’s Affair, I had admitted Zade and I had sex, but I still didn’t confirm his identity to her, and she hadn’t asked. I think she was too concerned with my mental health to think about it. Rightfully so.
Regardless, if I had just been upfront and told Daya that I couldn’t share details about Zade and Mark, I think she would’ve learned to accept it. It was lying to her that hurt her most.
She followed me down to the kitchen, her anger a heavy gaze burning into the back of my head the entire way. And now, she glares at me from across the island.
“How long have you known? And why are there men stationed outside the house? And he trusts you to tell me what?”
I bite my lip. “For a little while,” I confess. “Look, I didn’t say anything because his involvement with Mark is top secret. I didn’t want you to keep asking questions that I wasn’t sure I could answer. It wasn’t my story to tell and what he’s doing is incredibly sensitive.”
“Did you know who he was when I asked you about him before Satan’s Affair?”
I cringe and nod my head, confirming what she already knew. Hurt flashes in her eyes, and all I want to do is cry—the guilt I’ve been carrying for lying to her bleeds from my pores.
She blows out a breath and nods, accepting my answer for what it is. “Okay, fine. Can you tell me now?”
I go on to explain Zade’s current mission, outside of bringing down pedophile rings. About the sick rituals being performed on little children and how hard Zade has been working to find the location and bring it down. Daya listens attentively, face souring as I explain the horrific things being done to innocent children, aside from being tortured and trafficked.
As if that wasn’t fucking bad enough.
“I’d like to say I’m surprised, but I’m not,” Daya mutters, fidgeting with the hoop in her nose. “So Zade killed Mark because of these rituals?”
“Not exactly, though it definitely played a part in it. Remember how we saw him at Satan’s Affair?” When she nods, I continue. “Apparently, Mark targeted us that night and had made a call for someone to come… extract us.”
I explain Zade’s role that night, and how he had made sure that Daya and I never ended up in the back of a van. Even worse, how the Society has put a target on my head, and that Mark was trying to fulfill that.
As I continue telling her everything I know, Daya stares at me with a somber expression on her face.
When I finish, she stays quiet. Halfway through the story, I poured us both a shot of vodka. We both needed the liquid courage to hear about just how fucked up this world can be.
“I’ll be keeping an eye on you as well,” Daya says after a few moments. Silence had settled in, and as it stretched on, I grew more and more anxious that she was going to walk out.
I hurt her.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say, my voice small.
“It seems I do,” she sighs, a frown pulling her lips down.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize again. “Ever since he came into my life, shit has been insane, and I’ve barely had time to come to terms with it all. Not to mention that I still don’t know how to process… him. And I think I wanted just to pretend that I was handling a stalker how I should be. Not by going off and… well—”
“Fucking him?” Daya finishes, her voice stern.
I cringe, biting my lip against the sting of her words. I deserved that.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
Daya’s shoulders drop. “I’m sorry, you didn’t deserve that,” she says, as if reading my mind. “I’m not mad at you for your relationship with Z, Addie. I mean, I don’t understand it… I don’t understand how anyone could accept that their lover is a stalker. I also don’t think it’s the makings of a healthy relationship. The dude obviously has issues.”
I nod, agreeing with her assessment. What she’s saying are the same things that I have thought myself.
“But knowing that Z is your stalker oddly reassures me. I never knew him personally, obviously. I didn’t even know what he looked like, but what he does… it’s incredibly admirable. He puts his life on the line every day, walks into the lion’s den himself and saves a lot of innocent souls. He’s helped countless people and taken down so many rings already. And I don’t have to see what’s in the videos to know that Z takes them to heart.”
She sighs, and a sardonic smile flashes on her face. “He stalks people for a living, so I suppose it’s no surprise that tendency has bled into his love life.”
I make a face, showing her how unimpressed I am with him not keeping his work habits where they belong.
“And I get why you didn’t tell me,” she admits softly. “Mark put you in a pretty shitty situation to begin with, and I understand more than most how delicately that situation needs to be handled. I would’ve understood if you had said so from the beginning.” She shoots me a look. “But I get it. You’re not used to this dark corner of the world, so I can’t expect you to know how to deal with it all.”
My body relaxes with her acceptance, relieving me of some of the weight resting on my shoulders.
I can’t stand when Daya’s mad at me. I’d take Zade pointing a gun in my face over my best friend’s anger any day.
“Daya, I just want you to know it wasn’t because I didn’t trust you. And I’m so sorry I lied. Getting involved with Zade really tests my morals, and I still don’t know what to think of everything. I mean, falling in lo—” I cut myself off, my teeth clicking from the force. I feel the blood drain from my face as I swallow the words back down.
“Do you—”
“No,” I cut in, the response too rushed and snappy to ring true.
Daya blinks, an array of emotions in her sage eyes, but she takes pity on me and doesn’t push.
“Well, whatever the case, I guess I can’t blame you for not being able to resist him.” She flashes a toothy smile. “He is really hot, and you really needed to get laid.” I find a random envelope sitting on the island and whip it at her in response.
She cackles, dodging the envelope.
“Dick,” I mutter, increasing her laughing. What I’m not going to tell her is that sex with Zade is far beyond getting laid. It’s not just incredibly intense, it’s metamorphosing. I walked out of that House of Mirrors a completely different person. And after last night, I don’t think I will ever be able to go back to the Adeline Reilly before Zade.
“Have you heard anything from Max?” I ask, the simple question erasing the light hearted tone.
Daya shrugs a shoulder. “No, actually. Ever since he visited us at that restaurant, I haven’t heard from him. Or the twins.”
I nod and say, “Zade implied several times that they’ve been handled, but I’m not sure what exactly that means. I haven’t even thought to ask, my mind has been so wrapped around everything else. Do you think they’re dead?”
She chews her lip and shrugs, appearing a tad uncomfortable. Her best friend has a serial killer for a… I don’t know what he is. Boyfriend? Lover? Gross, no. God can smite me before I refer to a man as my lover.
Whatever he is, he’s crazy.
But I think she might even know that better than I do, with him being her boss. I’m sure she’s aware of the minute details on Zade’s operations when he extracts girls.
“I don’t think they are, but I’ll look into it. Regardless, they’ve left us alone and I’m glad for it.”
I nod in agreement. Can’t say I have any complaints either.
Daya makes a move towards the coffee pot when she steps on the envelope I threw at her.
Pausing, she picks it up off the floor and sets it down on the island. That’s when I notice that it’s an odd envelope. It’s thick as hell, as if it’s packed to the brim with papers or something.
Brows dipping in confusion, I reach over and snatch up the thick paper. Noting the look on my face, Daya turns her attention back to me.
“What is it?”
My address is handwritten, but there’s no return address.
“I don’t know,” I mutter, eyeing the envelope like it’s a bomb. I can’t explain the exact feeling, but anxiety pools in the pit of my stomach.
Carefully, I peel open the flap, grab the thick stack of papers and slide them out. Except it’s not all just papers. Dozens of photographs fall out, along with a weathered note.
Daya and I glance at each other, our eyes connecting with mutual confusion and trepidation.
I pick up the pictures first, immediately recognizing a younger version of Gigi in them. Most of them, her smiling red lips stare back at me, the same man predominant in all the photos.
“Who is that?” I mutter, not expecting any real answer at the moment. I don’t recognize the man. He’s not pictured in any of the photographs that were hanging on the wall when I moved in.
Once I renovated the house, I decided to take them all down. I had decided that they’d judged me enough after the Greyson debacle.
Zade fucked me in that hallway last night—that’s as far as we made it before he pinned me up against the wall and took me from behind. When Zade and I had left the bedroom this morning, we had both discovered I had gouged nail marks into the paint. It was my only anchor with his hand firmly gripping my hair, bowing my body back, and using it as a rope as he fucked me into oblivion. I had collapsed after that orgasm, and he was forced to fuck me on the rug, right smack in the middle of the hallway.
I’ll never look at that spot on the rug or the wall the same.
So, I can only imagine how judgy their frozen eyes would be after not only seeing their descendent actually get railed this time, but by her stalker no less.
Thank god I took those down.
“Is there anything written on the back?” Daya asks, flipping over a few photos herself to look. I flip over mine and see a date written.
January 8th, 1944.
Several months before Gigi had started writing about her stalker.
In the picture is Gigi, smiling brightly up at the camera, her hair pinned into the type of curls you only saw in the 40s. Next to her, the unfamiliar man has an arm wrapped loosely around her, a slight smirk on his face. Something about him seems familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.
“No names on this one,’ I observe, flipping over a few more pictures. All with dates but none that reveal the identity of the man.
We spread the photos out and arrange them in chronological order. The last picture is two weeks before her death.
Gigi seems to be curled in on herself, hunched and small as she holds a glass of wine. Her smile is strained, while the mystery man stands next to her, looking down at her with a pinched brow and a frown. At this point, she was already in fear for her life.
But from the man in the pictures, or someone else?
Next, I pick up the weathered letter. It’s addressed to Gigi.
My Genevieve,
It pains me to write this letter. I sit here and I mourn. For what could have been. For what could still be but yet you refuse to see.
I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you, Genevieve. I’ve loved you though you have married another. And now that I know you have given yourself to a different man—a man that’s not me, my love still persists.
I’ve waited so long for you already, and now yet another has come between us. Has stopped me from taking you as mine.
Why do you insist on doing this to me? To us?
It plagues me. Keeps me from sleeping at night. The only thing I can think of doing is cutting you from my life to end this misery. For good.
Sincerely,
Your true love
“What the fuck did I just read?” I ask in a strained whisper. Daya reads over my shoulder, and when I look back at her, her wide eyes are on me, alight with confusion and concern.
“That sounded ominous. Threatening,” she says, her green eyes glancing at the letter like it’s a curse written on paper.
I nod distractedly, setting down the note and sorting through the pictures again. Looking for clues on who this man might be.
But there are none.
“He looks so familiar,” I murmur, studying another picture. They look to be at a party of some sort. The image is in black and white, so I can’t tell the color of the dress, only that it’s a dark shade. Jewels decorate the ends of her sleeves and around the collar of the dress. And of course, I don’t need the picture to be in color to know she’s wearing her red lipstick.
The man has his hand resting high up on her thigh. With the way he’s clutching her, it almost seems possessive. Domineering.
I’ve never met this man in my life and yet I know he’s a damn bastard, that I can bet money on.
And by the strained smile on Gigi’s face, and the tightening around her eyes, my great-grandmother clearly thought so, too.
“Hold on, let me take pictures and upload them onto my computer. I can do a reverse image search.”
I watch her do her thing, her brow pinched with concentration. Within minutes, she’s turning the laptop towards me, staring at me carefully.
“Mark’s father. That’s who’s in all these pictures.”
My eyes snap to hers while my heart rate picks up speed.
“Are you thinking the same thing as me?” I ask.
“What, that your great-grandfather’s best friend could have been in love with Gigi and killed her when he found out she was having an affair with a man that wasn’t him?” she summarizes, plucking the exact thoughts out of my head.
She sighs and stares down at the photos. “I don’t know. It’s a big conclusion to come to just based off of some creepy photos and a note. While the note does have a threatening tone to it, it certainly isn’t enough to convict him of murder.”
I nod, having thought the same thing. Something about these pictures puts me on edge and gives me a creeping chill down my spine. As much as I revolted against Gigi’s diary and how she fawned over her stalker, it never gave me a bad feeling the way the note and pictures do. Still, I can’t solve a murder case purely based on feeling. I need evidence.
“Logically, Gigi’s stalker is still more likely, but that doesn’t mean Mark’s father being the murderer is out of the question,” she goes on, absently picking up one of the pictures and observing it.
“I see motive in this note. So, even if it’s a small chance, I think we should still look into it.”
“Have you found any more information on Ronaldo?”
She sighs. “Yes. He died in 1947 of a cardiogenic shock.” My brows plunge.
“A heart attack?”
She shifts. “A broken heart. He died of broken heart syndrome.” My mouth dries. “I found some family history on him, but not much else. His life was kept pretty tightly under wraps, and I assume his boss had something to do with that.”
“So, a dead end,” I conclude, nodding my head. I bite my lip, rolling it between my teeth as I contemplate my next move. “I think I need to go up into the attic,” I say with resignation. I may love ghosts, but fuck, that doesn’t mean I still have the desire to be possessed by a demon or whatever is up there.
Daya’s sage eyes whip to mine. I told her about the last note I found and how I felt there was something very negative up there.
“You’re a masochist. You’re gonna get possessed if you go up there.”
I snort. “I think it would’ve done so by now if it really wanted to. There could be more up there.”
Daya sighs. “I’m going to die today,” she mutters.
“You won’t die, just maybe a little possession,” I chirp as I round the island and make way towards the staircase.
“Yeah, and guess who I’m terrorizing first?”
That cold, heavy weight instantly drops on my shoulders the second I enter the attic. It’s like in those cartoons when a piano drops out of the sky and lands on top of an unsuspecting person.
“Okay, hurry the fuck up, I don’t like it up here,” Daya says, her voice tight with fear. It’s crawling across my bones too, sending my heart racing. Yet, heat slithers through my muscles, settling low in the pit of my stomach.
I use the flashlight on my phone to search through the walls. I start with where I found the last note, but all that’s left are cobwebs and spiders.
I make my way over each wall, pressing on the wood paneling in hopes of finding one of them loose. It’s not until I get close to the mirror that I find one. The wood rattles beneath my palms, and with the heavy feeling surrounding us, I waste no time ripping the wood from the wall.
I bounce the beam of light around in several different directions, finding nothing but more bugs and webs. I almost give up, until I see a flash of something shiny.
“I think I found something,” I announce excitedly.
“Thank fuck,” Daya mutters from behind me. I barely hear the words. Plunging my arm into the hole before I can consider the bugs, I grab at the piece, my hand closing around something plastic. I go to pull that out, but my hand grazes what feels like paper, so I make a grab for that too.
I swipe at my arm, cringing at the feel of cobwebs sticking to me. I don’t even look at my arm, I just keep brushing it off all while beelining for the steps.
“Let’s go,” I breathe, right before I’m nearly knocked on my ass from Daya pushing past me and running down the stairs.
Whatever is in my hand, it’s something big. I’m as sure of it as I am of the eyes on my back, watching me leave.
Slamming the attic door behind me, I lean against it and heave, shaking out the bone-chilling cold that seems to cling to me like glue.
“I’m never going up there again,” Daya says, panting.
“I don’t think I want to, either,” I say. Finally, I look down at my hand and see a Ziploc bag with a gold diamond encrusted Rolex in it and blood streaked across the plastic. And the note in my hand is a quick scrawl that says, “hide this, no one can know I did it. Remember that.”
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
“Let me see it. We can’t touch it or we’ll get fingerprints on it, but those have serial numbers. I can probably trace that back to its owner.”
We rush down into the kitchen, the demon residing in my attic forgotten. I find a pair of spare rubber gloves that Daya and I used when we were cleaning out the house. She snaps the gloves on and carefully pulls out the bloodied watch.
“I don’t want the blood to flake off, but I need to remove the bracelet in order to see the serial number,” she murmurs, handling the watch piece with care. “Do you have a thumbtack?”
I whip around and open up the junk drawer in my kitchen, confident I have one somewhere. After rummaging for a minute, I let loose a celebratory ah-ha and hand Daya a blue thumbtack.
It takes her a minute, but she finally gets the bracelet unhooked between the lugs of the watch.
“Motherfucker,” she curses.
“What?”
“Someone scratched at the serial number. It’s barely legible.”
Daya looks up at me, disappointment radiating from her green eyes. I deflate, a frown tugging my lips down in defeat.
“I’m not gonna give up. We’re getting this blood tested and I’m going to figure something out with this watch. Let me handle it?”
I nod, trusting Daya to figure it out. She’s incredibly intelligent, and her resources on finding out information are astronomical.
And then a light bulb goes off in my head. “In those pictures with Gigi, Frank was wearing that watch.”
I pick through all the papers scattered across the island until I find the small stack of photos.
“Same watch,” I reiterate, handing the pictures over. Daya peers down at the photos, a grin pulling her lips up.
“Now we just have to prove it.”
