Page 98 of Phantom Mine

Valentina

Breaking into Rocco’s office is easier the second time around. With the proper tools, the lock gives way in half the time my first attempt took.

Absurdly, there’s a feeling of guilt looming just behind my pride. I broke my promise to Matteo within days of making it. Like every other night, I initially fell asleep beside him, worn out by our efforts. But when I got up, I didn’t find myself immediately leaving. Instead, I lingered by the doorway before eventually looking back at him. He was splayed on his stomach, the scarred skin of his back on display. The sight of the mangled flesh had solidified my resolve and driven me out of his apartment with determined steps.

Still the guilt remains, sticking to me like a cobweb I can’t shake off. I compartmentalize it, focusing on the task at hand. When I unlock the drawer and pull it open, a bubble of relief bursts past my lips. The photos are all still there, thrown inhaphazardly and filling it almost to the brim. Part of me feared that Rocco would clean house after he caught us.

I reach in and grab a handful of photos, noticing that my hand shakes as I pull them out. Nerves or anticipation, I’m not sure. I spill them on Rocco’s desk and start spreading them across the surface, frantically searching for a familiar face.

“Come on,” I hear myself say. “Come on, come on.”

My stomach is in knots as I chant the words below my breath. I don’t know if I’m hoping that Adriana is amongst the women because then at least I’ll have a lead, or if I’m hoping that she isn’t because deep in my gut, I know these photos aren’t good news.

Blondes, brunettes, redheads. Shaved heads, curly locks, short hair, long hair, and everything in between. They’re all represented in the photos before me, every ethnicity, shape, and size of woman you can think of. The only thing they have in common is their relative youth. Amongst the thirty or so photos before me, the oldest can’t be more than twenty-five years old. The sinking feeling in my stomach sinks deeper.

It takes two more reaches into the drawer and my hands becoming increasingly desperate before I find what I’m looking for. My gaze locks on a familiar pair of brown eyes and I freeze, rooted to the spot by shock.

Her face is partially covered by another photo. I brush it carelessly away and reach for the polaroid I’ve been hoping to find. My hand shakes so violently that it takes me a couple of tries to successfully pick it up.

When I do, I hear a cry. Distantly, as if disconnected from my own body, I realize the sound came from me. The visceral exclamation that rips from my throat seeing Adriana in as close to flesh and blood as I have in a year and a half is raw with pain.

She’s wearing the butterfly costume I last saw her in, staring into the camera with an expression that manages to be bothterrified and empty at the same time. Her hair is a tangled mess and mascara runs down her face in a trail of dried tears.

My knees give out and I crumple to the floor with a distressed moan, clutching the photo tightly in my fist. I instantly recognize the dead look in her eyes. Any woman would. It speaks volumes as to what happened to her, a full horror story told without a spoken word.

I weep. I weep and I weep and I weep.

I’m a never ending fountain of tears. I don’t try to quell them and they pour messily out of me.

Adriana watches me through the photo. As painful as the picture is, it’sher. I can’t bring myself to look away even as my body racks with tears.

After what feels like hours, I manage to pull myself together enough to examine the picture for clues. Adriana’s arms are wrapped around her body, her hands visible on either one of her biceps. She still has all ten fingers, ourMama’sring visible and catching the light. He must have cut it after snapping this picture.

This photo is confirmation that Rocco killed Adriana. The existence of dozens of other photos and women chills my blood. Did he kill them all? Is he a serial killer who cuts fingers off as a sort of sick signature?

My stomach heaves so violently, I only just manage to stop myself from being sick all over the floor of his office. I drag in one deep breath after another, hoping the nausea will dissipate.

I don’t know what to do from here.

Do I call myPapaand tell him? Do I call Thiago and let him razeFirenzeto the ground? Do I… tell Matteo?

No.

No, of course not.

My knee-jerk, visceral reaction is to call in the cavalry, but I need to leave emotion to the side and be rational. I now haveconfirmation of who killed Adri, but I still don’t know where her body is. Finding her and bringing her home to my family is just as important to me as finding her killer.

Another wave of nausea sends bile shooting up into my throat. As much as I want to—needto, even—I can’t react. Not now. Not yet.

I pocket the photo of Adri and gather the others into my arms, then dump them back into the open drawer.

Inexplicable loss and sorrow pull at me seeing those faces go back into the locked drawer. No doubt these girls have families who are searching for them, no doubt they have loved ones who miss them too. I hope they get justice one day, I hope I can help bring it to them, but my priority is Adriana.

Justice for her trumps all else.

Still, closing the drawer and turning my back on them proves to be incredibly difficult.

With a heavy heart, I lock the drawer and Rocco’s office door, then slink back through the dark hallways ofFirenze, Adriana’s photo now burning a hole in my pocket.

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