Page 33 of Nemesis

Siblings: none.

Occupation: unknown (last documented doing construction).

His bank accounts are active, but only in the form of monthly payments from a trust set up by his grandparents. There’s the occasional withdrawal of cash from a small bank chain in Emerald Cove, the next town over.

“I don’t understand,” I say, my gaze flicking back to the photo.

It looks like a screen grab from the bank security feed, slightly grainy and the angle all wrong to have been taken by a normal camera. It could’ve been zoomed and cropped from one on the ceiling. His expression doesn’t reveal anything. There’s no sense of fear or urgency, just a stoicism that seems foreign to me.

“I need you to find him.”

I don’t want to find him.

“Why?”

Kade rests his hip on the counter. “He’s been missing for two years.”

I scoff before I can help myself. “Missing?” I wave my hand over the folder. “Missed by who? No one wants to find him.”

Anger flashes across his face. “I want to find him.”

I scowl. “No.”

“What do you mean,no?” He steps closer. “I asked?—”

“You asked for a date. If you wanted to find him, you could’ve just?—”

“No.”

He could’ve asked Jace for help. Between Jace, Wolfe, and Apollo, they’ve got the whole city covered. Informants, alliances, bribes.

Maybe not so much of the latter, with the lack of gang wars in Sterling Falls, but still. They’ve got the network to make a search possible.

Me? Not so much.

And more importantly, I will not be digging up old wounds. Owning the building where I used to be regularly forced to have sex is bad enough. Knowing Terror is still right there, under the club, has given me equal amounts of grief and peace over the last few years.

If I keep it, it’s like a tourniquet. It stops the bleeding… for a price.

Sacrifices the limb.

The better method would’ve been therapy, but fuck that.

Kade exhales. “I have reason to believe you’re the only one who can find him. He talked about you.”

He knows.

Panic constricts my throat.

I don’t want him to know. I don’t?—

The front door opens. And Imustbe on edge, because I draw my gun and spin.

And end up pointing it straight at Saint.

He stops dead, his focus going from the barrel to my face and back. His expression is as distressed as I feel, and another bout of guilt washes over me. He followed me. He didn’t want to come here any more than I did, but he followed me anyway.

“We’re leaving,” I inform Saint.

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