Page 79 of My Bloody Valentine

My phone buzzes again. “Come to the boutique. Now.”

I grab my coat and rush out. The February wind whips at my face as I hurry down Michigan Avenue. I spot Adrian in his pristine white chef’s coat through the boutique’s window, calmly tempering chocolate as if nothing’s wrong.

Inside, the rich scent of melted chocolate envelops me. Adrian doesn’t look up from his work.

“Laurent’s been trying to replicate my recipes for years,” he says, spreading liquid chocolate across the marble. “He’ll never succeed.”

“He’s hiring investigators.”

“Let him.” Adrian’s knife scrapes across the surface, creating perfect chocolate curls. “Our ingredients are carefully sourced and only we know about it. There’s nothing to trace.”

I watch his steady hands work the chocolate, remembering how those same hands extracted Reynolds’ blood with surgical precision. “What if they start asking questions about your suppliers?”

Adrian finally meets my gaze. “Then we’ll need to be more selective about who tastes our special collection this Easter.”

The bell chimes at the boutique’s entrance. I look up from arranging display truffles to see Amelia, her face ghost-white, mascara smeared beneath her eyes.

“We need to talk. Now.” Her voice cracks.

I guide her to the back room, away from curious customers. “What’s wrong?”

“I was at The Blue Room, in Gabe’s office.” Her hands shake as she clutches her purse. “I knocked over some files while waiting for him and... Maya, there were photos. Horrible photos.”

My stomach drops. “Amelia?—”

“People tied up. Blood everywhere.” She grabs my arm. “And there were pictures of you too. From before you met Adrian. They’d been watching you.”

“Let me explain?—”

“Explain what? That my best friend is involved with murderers?” Tears streak down her face. “I found recipes, too. Special ingredients. Human ingredients. Tell me I’m wrong, Maya. Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

I can’t meet her eyes. Can’t lie to her anymore.

“Oh my God!” She stumbles backward. “The chocolates. All those exclusive tastings. That’s why they taste so different.”

“It’s more complicated than that?—”

“Is it? Because it seems pretty simple to me. You’re helping them kill people.”

“Only the ones who deserve it,” I whisper.

Amelia’s hand flies to her mouth. “Listen to yourself! These are people’s lives we’re talking about!”

“You don’t understand what they did, who they really were?—”

“And you do? Since when did you become judge, jury, and executioner?” She backs toward the door. “I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

“I’m still me. I’m still your friend.”

“My friend wouldn’t help serial killers make candy out of their victims.”

“We’re not monsters, Amelia.” I reach for her hand, but she pulls away. “We choose our targets carefully. These aren’t innocent people.”

“Like Marcus Reynolds?” Her voice shakes. “The food critic?”

“He was destroying small restaurants, families who’d put everything into their dreams. He’d send back dishes during rush hour and write scathing reviews unless they paid him off.” I take a deep breath. “But that was just the beginning. We’ve found worse. Much worse.”

I retrieve my phone and show her the evidence we’ve gathered—documents revealing a human trafficking ringoperating through certain high-end restaurants. Her eyes widen as she scrolls through.

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