Page 106 of The Woman at the Funeral

The TV (that I’d never seen black in my life) was off.

Since the last time I’d visited, the place had become emptier. Pictures were no longer on the walls. Shelves were cleared off.

Ronny was planning on leaving.

Soon.

She’d gotten too impatient and had decided to cut to the chase and just force Blair to give her what she wanted.

There was one problem, though.

Blair didn’t have the files anymore.

Or the laptop.

She had nothing to leverage for her freedom.

Panic welled up as I rushed through the familiar apartment, seeing it with different eyes.

“Zen, you gotta get me something,” I heard Leo say through the walls. “He can’t lose her.”

I moved into Ronny and Tom’s room, yanking open drawers, upturning them on the bed, then digging through the contents.

But it was all just… junk. Lotion, clothes, random pictures.

I tore through the closet next, whipping everything out, then making sure there were no hiding spots in the wall or floors.

There was nothing—nothing—that indicated they were criminals at all. Let alone masterminds.

“Where is Danny living? Here?”

“Not technically, no. He had to go to an approved location for parole. But he does crash at his parents’ place when he wasn’t expecting a drop-in from his parole officer.”

I whipped past Matt’s room, which was still perfectly preserved from the last time he’d been living there. Old movie and music posters from Matt’s early adulthood still hung. But there was a bottle of a recently released cologne on the dresser.

While Matt’s room was cluttered and disorganized, Danny’s room was a complete and utter disaster.

When I pushed the door, it met with resistance and sent a pile behind the door toppling.

“Christ,” Gav grumbled from behind my shoulder. “Shocked Ronny let him keep it like this.”

Unless, of course, the mess was a distraction, making you think there was no way anyone would keep important documents or information in such a disaster area.

So I moved inside, systematically going through the drawers, closet, under the bed, then even using my toe to dig through the piles of crap on the floor.

There was a sheet of balled-up paper listing all the things Danny wanted to buy with the money from selling me and my family out to our enemies.

The fucking idiot wanted a Ferrari and a yacht.

A fuckingyacht.

By the time we’d dug through every inch of the apartment, another hour had ticked by.

An hour where fuck-knew what was happening to Blair.

“Zen, please tell me you have something. Danny’s apartment. A family vacation house, something,” I said as I charged back out of the apartment.

“I’ve got a couple of leads. Danny’s apartment is a basement one. It’s not perfect, but if she’s drugged…”

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