I try her number again, but it goes to voicemail.

“Did you go out drinking or something last night?" The idea of her partying all night while I went into work to get suspended rubs me the wrong way. Frustration overrides the concern I’m feeling. “You got me in a heap of trouble at work and I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do.” I count down from ten in my head. “Okay. You’ve had enough warning, I’m coming in.”

I fumble with my key chain, looking for the spare key she gave me a while back to help water plants after she went on some photo expedition out in Europe.

A quick jimmy later, and I’m in the dim apartment where afternoon lights filter through sheer curtains. The place smells like stale Chinese food and pot - it could be worse. I flip on the light. “Laina?”

Something’s off.

She should be home, judging by her purse and keys sitting on the side table near the front door. Her shoes are kicked off.

The place is silent. A kind of silence that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and take notice, not because it's spooky, but because the type of quiet that screams something's off. I step into the apartment, my shoes the only sound against the worn hardwood floors.

I move down the hall to her bedroom. The one place she’d be, but it’s empty. Her bedsheets tossed back like she’s just risen from them. Her toothbrush sits on the edge of the bathroom sink. There’s makeup out and open, and a heap of clothes thrown on the floor.

Has she stepped out for a walk or something?

The kitchen’s a mess with dirty plates stacked in the sink, which is normal for her, but her phone is there on the table, lying next to a file that has "Hellfire Riders" scrawled across it in a hurry, like it's hot to the touch. The file’s open; its contents spread out like a deck of cards.

It is a mess of papers, grainy photos with blurry images, and notes written in a hand that's halfway between determined and desperate. Her phone usually attached to her sits there like it’s holding its breath, waiting. I touch the screen to see if it has power. It lights up, showing all my missed calls and texts.

My heart rate spikes.No, no, no, no.

“What the hell have you gotten into, Laina?”

I take a seat at the table, running my hands through my hair. Hoping beyond hope that she’s just out for a stroll, trying to walk off hangover or sleep. Something, anything. Any minute she’d see my car and barge in demanding to know what the hell I’m doing here in the middle of the day.

But the stack of papers sitting here tells me another story. One I’m not sure I want to believe.

It hits me then, standing in this too-quiet kitchen, that she's in over her head. She's out there somewhere, poking a hornet's nest with a stick.

She’s already been gathering evidence on these guys. No wonder she was so eager to get to the Puppeteers crime scene, she was hoping to catch them.

I sift through the chaos, papers sliding through my fingers like whispers of danger, hoping she left some sort of clue on where she is or what she's up to. Laina’s ignored my calls before, but she’s never been seen without her phone or wallet. She might be overly confident, but she’s not naive.

My hands shake as one photo that’d fallen under the table catches my attention. I reach down and inspect it; written at the bottom in her perfect cursive reads “I finally found their clubhouse.” The GPS coordinates are written out underneath. The Hellfire logo hangs like a banner over the entrance of the worn, shitty bar buried somewhere deep in the woods.

My blood runs cold. She found their clubhouse. Alone. Reckless, brave, foolish Laina. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. Did she go there? I chew on my bottom lip. Is that where she went out the other night without me?

My stomach flip flops.

She knew better than to go there alone. She's going to get herself killed if she hasn’t already. I rise from the table and start frantically searching for her camera.

It’s gone.

It's just like her, isn't it? Fearless to the point of recklessness, always chasing the next big scoop with the tenacity of a bulldog. But this? This is different. This is not just any story. This is the Hellfire Riders, a gang that doesn't just flirt with danger—they're married to it, and they don't take kindly to strangers. And they are especially not nice to nosy journalists.

The photo in my hand, the coordinates scrawled in her neat cursive, is a breadcrumb she's left, whether intentionally or not, it's my only lead.

Adrenaline pumping through my veins as I contemplate my next move. That clubhouse is about two hours away. Two hours into what could very well be a nightmare. But there's no choice, is there? Laina is out there, possibly in over her head, and I'm the only one who knows where to start looking.

I gather the mass of file and papers into my arm and rush out the door.

Please, Laina. Let me be wrong about this.

5

IZZY