Page 72 of The Truths that Deceive

My café Cubano is strong and sweet, the computer slower than the dead.

I stab in the card number and dive down into the dark web to see if I can contact Senator Riley.

I call the old number over the computer and leave a cryptic voicemail stating I’ll be in touch again, but if he gets the message, to call me on a number generated by the BurnEd app, one that creates untraceable temporary numbers. I link it to an app that translates and stores any voice messages as a text, and then I start to search other things.

Chatter on the weapon.

Information about Johnny.

And Trenton.

My search still comes up empty for Trenton. By all accounts, he’s dead, but his wife’s in New York. And a son… how did I miss this every time I’ve researched him?

I copy her details down and send them to my Jane Doe cloud, and then I deep dive into other things.

She did an interview over some center she opened, and even though there is no direct link between her and Trenton, I manage to connect whatever dots I have. I send all that to that cloud, too.

Then my fingers freeze over the keyboard.

There’s a picture of me and Henry. It says I’m wanted for questioning.

A movement captures my eye, and I look up, eyes wide. There, at the door, is a man in a suit.

It’s not Smith, but I’m so jumpy I shut everything down and slide into the darkness of the hallway.

I lock the door of the bathroom and lean against it, trying to stop the race of my pulse. I’m alone, so why?—

“Because,” I whisper, “he’s on his way.”

It’s in the air. My blood. My senses.

And every second I spend in this bathroom means he’s closer to getting me. He probably discovered the missing creditcard. He might have had an alert set up. I don’t know. All I know is I need to run.

With a breath, I unlock the door and pull it open.

And stop.

Smith blocks my way. “Hello, little girl. Going somewhere?”

“Away from you.”

He doesn’t touch me as he moves forward, and instead of standing my ground, I back away from him. Before I know it, he’s closed the door and locked it. The dulled sound of sex-soaked salsa permeates the rickety wood of the door. He backs me against the counter with the sink.

“That’s the wrong way,” he murmurs, lifting me onto the ledge, his hands burning brands into my hips as he does so. “The door’s behind me.”

“You locked it.”

“True.” He kisses a trail up my throat, pausing to suck where he’s bitten me before and my entire body throbs. A moan breaks free. “I expected more of a chase. But perhaps my prey wanted to get caught.”

“No.”

“Not ‘code’? Just no?”

“I don’t…”

His hands whisper over my skin, one slipping down along the split in the skirt, and I don’t even understand how he has such an incredible hold on me.

I want to fight him, I do. I want to go toe to toe and show him his prey has teeth but there’s a heaviness inside that tells me maybe I want to be caught, that I want to curl up for him, offer myself to him. Because I fought already. Against horrible men.

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