Page 20 of Prey

Yet, the Larsson Police Department tookherlying word over a hundred others.

If it looked and smelt like a rat, it probably was a fucking rat.

11

While Mikky and Ronan went over the books together, I walked down the end of the hall to the private viewing lounge that looked out across the games and dance areas of the club. My father had visited this club a handful of times because it was bought not long before he died. But it spurred us on to get out of Larsson to start a new life.

But, fuck, I missed him. I looked up to my father as he was my fucking hero. Mom shattered when he died, and the little pieces that held her together were broken some more when Annika did what she did.

I wasn’t a good son to Mom after Dad died, and I became a worse son months later when Mikky was arrested, and everything crumbled into dust. Hunting down Annika gave me a reason to live, and it fueled me day after day to roll out of bed. It was Ronan’s influence that stopped me from harming myself or someone else, but Mom had been neglected, and I didn’t visit and contact her enough.

I never knew what to say to Mom because I carried the guilt of Annika's actions. She was my best friend. How did I not notice what was going on? If she was being blackmailed or bribed, why didn’t she tell me? We could’ve done something about it. We could’ve approached Mikky on the quiet together, and he would’ve sorted it out like he always did.

We were kids. Stupid kids.

My finger hovered over Mom’s number in my contacts. I hadn't replied to her last three messages because she kept asking me to return to Larsson to visit her. But going back to that fucking place was the last thing I wanted to do. Then she’d suggest she could visit us in Gothenburg, but I couldn’t face her.

Thoughts that haunted me inked on my skin, never to be erased, she’d never understand. But then, it was her husband, my father, who was murdered, and I hadn’t supported Mom while she waded through the pain of loss.

I am a terrible son.

Tossing my phone aside, I reclined in the leather armchair, put my boots on the glass coffee table, and fixed my eyes on the proceedings below. It’s after 8 PM, and already men are sitting at the tables, armed with tokens, eager to gamble their life savings away, while classy waitresses and dealers keep the men happy.

Savile had become my escape from the mundane life at Gotland to the glamor and ritz of a world created on fantasy. I sat on the edge, watching from afar rather than merging andmingling. Yeah, I was hardly a mingler, preferring to melt away in observing human behavior, picking the winners from the losers, just by how a man held himself, the posture, and the steady hands. How easily a man parted with his money for a gamble under the longing gaze of a pretty girl. The better-quality man never allowed a girl to persuade him to empty his wallet on the table. Instead, he knew when to fold them and walk away.

In the lounge, the carpet was being vacuumed as a waitress cleaned the round tables while Betty was behind the bar cleaning glasses and raising them to the light to ensure there were no smudges. The stage was being prepared for the dancers, and the standard, both in behavior and interior, must be upheld. As soon as standards dropped even a fragment, the exclusivity and reason why an upper-class man came to Savile were lost.

My father taught Mikky, Betty, and Freddie that to entice men with money, the elite, and the powerful, the lounge and casino must look like a billion bucks, with shiny and spotless furniture and flawless and beautiful staff. The atmosphere must be luxurious and surreal so that the member can lose himself in his superiority and privilege.

A message flashed up on my phone, and I was reluctant to look at it, assuming it was Mom. My fingers twitched toward it anyway.

Them: I was going to ignore your stupid message. But I changed my mind. You’re an attention-seeking, low-IQ juvenile. Leave me alone.

It was from an unknown number, and it wasn’t until I looked at the message I sent her that I realized who it was. After chasing her across campus, masked up, I grabbed her number off Shaun and took a pic of the mask lying on the floor after I took it off. It took only 24 hours for her to reply, and as I rubbed my grisly chin, as a smile stretched across my face. I had nothing to smileabout these days, but this girl, Riley Laws, who reminded me of Annika, brought it out until I forced it away.

Me: I can’t do that.

I added Riley's name under that number to find her again, but I was only getting started. There had to be a way to get close to her without her seeing my face because I still had a deep hunch that she was Annika. Shaun had already searched her room and couldn’t find evidence, so the next step was to check her phone. But the chances of separating Riley from her phone were slim since our generation had it glued to our hands.

Shaun couldn’t get near her phone, and it sounded like he fucked things up with Riley so that she won’t go near him again. Callum was another option, but he’d try to fuck her, and I explicitly said not to touch her. Besides, those two are attached at the hip, so she’d also become suspicious of Callum as well.

Riley: It wasn’t a question. It was a demand. Stay away, you creep.

Me: Again. I can’t do that.

Riley: I’m changing my number.

Me: I’ll find your new one

Riley: Why r u following me?

Me: I want to

My fingers tapped on the armrest, eagerly waiting for her reply, and it was taking too fucking long. The conversation wasn’t over until I said. I clenched my jaw, using all my strength not to drive over there and kick her door down. Fuck, I wanted her keycard back. Where did Ronan put it? In Mikky’s apartment, maybe. That’s the only place I hadn’t looked.

“The conversation was not over until I said,” I snarled, jaw clenched, fingers tapping, knee bobbing, scratching at my tatts, even though there was no irritation. It was an unhealthy habit Istarted after my first tattoo to remind me of what she did to us, and sometimes, it crawled up my skin.

Finally, a message came through from her. About fucking time.

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