Page 42 of Bleeding Outside the Lines

“Enough,” I say. “We have work to do.” Using my blade, I point to the stools and then to the men. “Sit. Now.”

I know that my feelings for Cassius should make me feel sympathetic to his injuries, but instead I find myself turned on. I want to drag my tongue over the cut on his lip, to feel the roughness beneath my touch. I wonder if he would lay there and take it while I did unspeakable things to him.

“Did the men ever come back looking for the money?” I ask.

Cassius shakes his head. “No. I kept expecting them to, but they never did.”

“While you two were acting like children,” Rowan says, “I’ve been going through her obituary line by line looking for anything that could help us. The first thing that’s odd is that there isn’t a picture, and even a thorough search of her doesn’t bring one up.”

“Her dad was into some shit, international business shit,” Garrett supplies. “He was very private and forced the girls to be private too.”

“After they didn’t come back for the money, I started to wonder if the suits knew her dad, and realized they fucked up,” Cassius offers a shrug. “Or maybe it was on purpose, and their play with me was just a cover.”

“I’ll look into it. But here’s the other thing,” Rowan continues, “the obit is clean. Like, it says that Hannah Flemming died, but services were for close family only and doesn’t mention any of them by name.”

“If it was a closed service, how do the two of you know it was a closed casket?” I ask.

“We blackmailed the funeral director to let us in before the family,” Cassius answers.

“He was having an affair with his wife’s sister,” Garrett says. “It was child’s play.”

“You said girls.” Rowan backtracks.

I throw Cassius a dish towel from the drawer, and he uses it to wipe the blood from his face. His eye is puffy, and I think his nose needs to be reset. Again.

“Hannah had… has? A sister,” Cassius offers. “I don’t remember her name, though.”

“Sophie,” Garrett supplies. “She and Hannah were like eight or nine years apart.”

The three of us stare at the phone, the rhythmic tapping of Rowan’s keyboard the only noise in the room.

“She doesn’t exist. How is that possible?” Rowan lets out a frustrated groan. “And why are there no fucking pictures? Rubes, I’m going to need a little time to get into the county database, see if I can pull up the case file on Hannah.”

Garrett digs into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. “I have a picture. Of Hannah, I mean, but I don’t know how much good it will do. It’s pretty beat up.”

“And you just thought of this now? I could have been running facial recognition this entire fucking time.” Rowan bobs her head forward. “And you call yourself a genius.”

“Excuse me if I’m rattled after the ghost of the only girl I’ve ever loved made a fucking appearance tonight,” Garrett bites back. “And the guy who’s supposed to be a brother, is the fucking reason why.” He removes a photo strip from his wallet and slides it across the counter to me without looking at it. It’s from a photo booth. The kind where two teenagers kiss and laugh.

Four black and white pictures. In them, the man in front of me is no more than a child. There are deep creases across his features, where the strip has been folded and unfolded over the years. Some of the finish has rubbed off in places, evidence of time gone by. He never once looks at the camera, his eyes stay firmly planted only on the girl. It makes me think that he sees her through the torn edges, through the creases. He folds and unfolds, and opens out of habit, to feel close to her, not becausehe forgets. He must see her every time he closes his eyes. “Is this all you have?” I ask Garrett.

He nods and reaches for it, but instead of handing it back to him, I snap a photo and text it to Rowan.

“Work your magic with that, Row.”

A ping sounds and she stretches her arms out, cracks her knuckles, then moves her head side to side as if preparing for a fight. Always the theatrics. We watch as she takes in the photo. Her face pales, and her features go slack.

“Rubes,” her voice is barely a whisper. “This is a problem.” She puts a finger to her lips and looks over her shoulder like someone might be standing behind her. “I’ll call you back,” she says, and the screen goes black.

twenty-nine

Rowan doesn’t call back.The hours pass slowly, each tick of the clock louder than the last. On the bedside table, Ruby's phone sits quiet and dark except for the blinking light indicating it being charged.

“Something is wrong,” I say for the twentieth time.

Ruby tears her eyes from the ceiling to look at me. “Nothing is wrong, she’s being careful. Clearly, she saw something in those photos that I didn’t. She’ll call when she can.”

“But what if she doesn’t?”

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