Page 14 of Picture Perfect

"Got it," I reply with a nod, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on my shoulders.

I motion for Chess and Dre to follow me, and we tramp up the stairs, our footsteps muffled by the thick runner—Mason installed it a few years ago, tired of “listening to our stomps echo at all hours”.

"Think we'll be in for another all-nighter?" Chess asks, his fingers flying over the screen as he navigates through messages and notifications.

"Most likely," I answer, glancing at him briefly before returning my attention to the stairs. “But, you know the drill. When Mason needs us, we show up."

We separate as we reach the top of the stairs, dropping our shit off in our respective rooms. Chess doesn’t actually live here, but he may as well. And, Mason had made it clear we were all welcome, always. It wasn’t like there wasn’t space for him to have a room even if he didn’t occupy it 7 nights a week.

I made my way back to the upstairs den, the scent of leather-bound books mingling with the faint aroma of coffee greeting me. This was our space too. Mason thought we deserved a hangout space that was just for us and he’d let me redecorate to my liking. It was just another kindness he’d bestowed upon me when he’d been forced to take me in.

I swivel in my chair, facing the boys, who beat me here. Chess’ fingers are already poised over his keyboard, itching to get started.

"Chess," I murmur, my voice a low rumble that fills the room with a sense of urgency. "Dig deeper into the Ice Princess's background."

It's not a mere suggestion; it's a command born out of necessity. The girl's elusive nature, her carefully guarded secrets, have become a persistent thorn in my side, gnawing at my curiosity like a relentless predator. Chess’ earlier searches turned up nothing. But, that was impossible.

He nods, hazel eyes focused as he cracks open his laptop. "I'm on it, Saint. But it's weird, man. It's like she doesn't exist beyond what we see at school."

"Keep looking," I urge him, leaning back, arms folded. "Everyone's got something to hide."

"Trust me, I'm trying." Chess's fingers fly over the keys, the click-clack of his hunt filling the room. "But it's clean, too clean. No socials, no online footprint—"

I stand behind Chess, watching the cursor blink on the screen. His frustration is palpable as he flips through tabs, each one as empty as the last. "That's every public record, social platform, forum... you name it," Chess says with a defeated slump in his shoulders. "Nothing sticks to her. It's like she's made of Teflon."

I lean in closer, my gaze narrowing on the pixels that make up Addy's digital ghost. "It's not natural," I muse aloud, thinking of the girl whose presence is as elusive as her past. "To be this invisible—she's hiding something."

"Or someone's hiding it for her," Dre chimes in from the corner, always the one to toss in a conspiracy angle.

"Can't hide forever," I mutter, more to myself than anyone else. "Her phone, you hacked into it?"

"Man, what do you take me for? I’m not some amateur." Chess rubs his temples as if the very thought gives him a headache. "There’s nothing. Surface level texts between her and her mother and those brainless bitches she hands out with. I mean, there could be another phone. A private one."

"Then we find it." My voice is sharp, decisive. "Set up surveillance on her current phone too. We have the tech for a reason."

"Got it." Chess nods, already mentally gearing up for the challenge. "I'll get Gen on it first thing."

"Good." I feel the edges of a plan shaping up in my head, as cold and meticulous as the task ahead. I can't shake the feeling that whatever Addy's hiding, it's crucial—not just for our curiosity, but for the game we're all unwittingly playing.

"Let's do some digging then," I say with finality, my mind already moving to the next phase of our operation. "Everyone has secrets, Addy. Time to spill yours."

"Saint. Boys." Mason's voice cuts through the quiet tension downstairs, authoritative and patient. "Conference time."

"Wrap it up, Chess," I say, pushing away from the wall. A silent communication passes between us. This isn't over; it's just on pause.

"Copy that," Chess responds, closing his laptop with a soft snap.

We file out of the room, descending the staircase to answer the call of duty. Tonight, like many nights before, we'll slip into the shadows and play our part in Mason's intricate game of chess. And somewhere in all this, we’ll find the truth about Adelaide Winthrop.

"In the War room," he calls as we reach the bottom of the stairs.

We need no further prompting. The War room is his haven of strategy and surveillance; it's where the real game unfolds. We enter the dimly lit space, the glow from an array of monitors casting ghostly shadows across our faces. Each screen flickers with a feed from some corner of the city or another—a constant reminder that while high school hallways may hold their secrets, the outside world is far more expansive, and dangerous.

"Take a seat," Mason instructs without looking back. He stands before the main console, fingers dancing across the keyboard with practiced ease. The small conference room at the back remains empty, doors ajar, as if waiting for a clandestine meeting to commence.

"Got something new?" Dre asks, his tone holding the edge of anticipation he doesn't bother to hide.

"Always." Mason spins on his heel, facing us. His eyes are sharp, the slate gray of a storm brewing on the horizon. "You three are in for tonight's operation."

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