Page 64 of Pose for Me

River's laughter erupts from the backseat, loud and unrestrained. His mirth is infectious, and I find myself fighting back a grin despite the tension still thrumming through my body.

Knox's lips twitch, a hint of amusement breaking through his stoic facade. "My father may have killed my mother," he says, his voice low and controlled, "but she had planned ahead. Left me a substantial amount of money in trust."

The casual way he mentions such a traumatic event makes me turn to face him, studying his profile as he focuses on the road. I open my mouth to ask more, but something in his expression makes me hesitate. Instead, I turn my attention to our surroundings.

"Where are we going?" I ask, unable to contain my curiosity any longer. The question hangs in the air, unanswered.

Knox's eyes remain fixed on the road, his jaw set in a hard line. The muscles in his forearm flex as he grips the steering wheel tighter, the only outward sign of any tension.

"Knox," I try again, my voice taking on a pleading edge. "Please, tell me what's going on. Who is the stalker? What did you find out?"

Still, he remains silent. The quiet hum of the engine and the soft whoosh of passing cars are the only sounds filling the luxurious interior.

Frustration bubbles up inside me, threatening to spill over. I turn to River, hoping he might help, but he merely shakes his head, a small, apologetic smile playing at his lips.

"Seriously?" I huff, crossing my arms over my chest. "You're both just going to sit there and say nothing?"

The silence stretches on, broken only by the soft click of the turn signal as Knox smoothly navigates a corner. I growl in frustration, my patience finally reaching its breaking point. But before I can unleash the torrent of questions and demands building inside me, Knox smoothly pulls the car into a hidden parking garage. The sleek vehicle glides effortlessly into a shadowy corner, far from prying eyes.

As the engine purrs to a stop, Knox finally breaks his silence. "We don't want the car seen near the address," he explains, his voice low and measured. "We'll leave it here and walk the rest of the way. It's not far."

I huff, my irritation still simmering just beneath the surface. Without waiting for either of them, I turn to open the door myself, eager to escape the stifling silence of the car. But before I can even touch the handle, River is there, opening the door. Knox makes his way around the car and extends his hand to me, his eyes intense and unreadable. For a moment, I consider refusing, petulantly clinging to my frustration. But something in his gaze - a mix of determination and something softer, almost pleading - makes me relent. I place my hand in his, allowing him to help me out of the car.

Knox's hand remains firmly clasped around mine as we exit the parking garage, his grip both reassuring and possessive. River falls into step beside us, his usual carefree demeanor replaced by a focused alertness. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the sidewalk as we make our way down the street.

We walk in silence, the only sounds are the soft tapping of our shoes on the pavement and the distant hum of town life. I can feel Knox's thumb absently stroking the back of my hand, a soothing gesture that seems almost unconscious.

As we turn the corner, the landscape begins to shift. The sleek, modern buildings of the business district give way to a curious blend of old and new. Here, the city's attempts at gentrification are on full display.

Knox's grip on my hand tightens almost imperceptibly as he guides us towards a nondescript alleyway. The entrance is partially obscured by an overflowing dumpster, the acrid smell of garbage mingling with the damp, earthy scent of the narrow passage.

As we step into the alley, the world seems to close in around us. The walls on either side are a canvas of urban art–layers upon layers of graffiti tags and elaborate murals competing for space. Splashes of vibrant color peek through the grime and decay, like flowers blooming in the cracks of a forgotten garden.

We come to a stop in front of a nondescript metal door, its surface marred by rust and graffiti. It's so similar to the one behind my studio that for a moment, I feel a disorienting sense of déjà vu. Knox opens the door, revealing a dimly lit stairwell beyond. As we step inside, the heavy door swings shut behind us with a resounding thud. The sound reverberates through the narrow space, making me jump slightly. Knox's hand finds the small of my back, a steadying presence as my eyes adjust to the gloom.

The stairwell is illuminated by a single bare bulb, casting long shadows that dance and flicker with our movements. The concrete steps are worn smooth in the center, testament to years of use. A musty scent hangs in the air, mingling with the faint smell of damp stone.

Finally, we reach the bottom. Before us stands another metal door, this one even more weathered than the first. Rust creeps along its edges like a slow-moving infection, and the paint is peeling off in large flakes.

“Who’s place is this?” I ask softly, looking between them.

"Your stalker's," Knox says simply, his voice a low rumble that echoes in the confined space.

River steps forward, opening the door for us and motioning us through. Knox stays close behind me, his presence solid and reassuring at my back. His hand rests on my lower back, gently guiding me forward into the gloom.

There isn’t much light in the room, only two tiny windows that don’t really provide much light. But then an overhead light flares to life, illuminating a figure bound and gagged to a chair in the center of the room.

My breath catches in my throat. “Lacy?”

Chapter 38

River

Iwatchthesurpriseand confusion cross Rayne's face, her eyes widening as she takes in the sight before us. Even I have to admit, seeing this woman tied up here surprises me. I shoot a look at Knox, raising an eyebrow in silent question. He gives me a subtle nod, confirming that this is no mistake.

Lacy sits bound to a metal chair in the center of the dimly lit room, her wrists and ankles secured with zip ties. A strip of duct tape covers her mouth, muffling what I assume are protests or pleas. Her usually perfectly styled blonde hair is disheveled, mascara streaks her cheeks, evidence of recent tears.

How we missed that one of Rayne's clients had become obsessed with her and started stalking her was beyond me. A week of her little "surprises" was a week too many. We should have seen this coming, should have caught on sooner. The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

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