Page 87 of Sloth
“That time I followed her up to Wyatt’s apartment and found her making a call, the cell she was on looked different. Maybe like…” He reached into his back jeans pocket and pulled his own cell out. It was the same brand the entire family shared. “Maybe like this.”
Silence shattered the room.
A heartbeat passed. Then another.
Almost too afraid to speak, she asked, “Did you overhear the conversation? Did it sound like—”
His eyes unfocused as his mind turned inward. “She was giving them an update on her plan. It was how I knew she’d been lying to us. That’s when I confronted her.”
Maybe Sloan didn’t hear right because it sounded like he inferred Sara used another phone to call the Syndicate—a phone that looked like his, and like the rest of their family’s—like Wyatt’s. Or was her mind reaching, and it was just a coincidence?
Flint cleared his throat. “Evan. Did you just say Sara may have used Wyatt’s cell to call the Syndicate?”
“I guess. We all have the same phone model, right?”
Sloan shouted at AIMI. “AIMI. Pull up Wyatt’s cell phone records from—” she looked at Evan and whispered. “What date?”
Looking flustered, he shrugged. “I don’t know. What date? Shit! Why are you so excited?”
“You idiot.” She poked him. “If Wyatt’s cell has a record of the number belonging to the Syndicate, it could lead us to their location.”
“If that number is still active,” Flint reminded her. It was his way of saying, don’t get your hopes up.
She bit her lip. “We could still find something.”
“Okay, let me look.” Evan activated his cell and opened up his calendar application. “What was the date?” He murmured to himself. “Got it. November thirtieth.”
Sloan relayed the information to AIMI and directed her to bring up Wyatt’s cell phone records on her laptop. While that was happening, she pulled up the GPS history from Sara’s phone. On its own, the information from Sara’s cell was a needle in a haystack, but coupled with the location of the caller from Wyatt’s cell on the day she’d called the Syndicate… they’d have a location. It might not be the place Max was being held. But it was a start.
After five minutes of searching, she looked up and met Evan’s eyes. “Found something.”
Twenty-Six
“Wake up.”
Pain burst in Max’s cheek and he jolted awake, wincing. The crusty dried blood on his face cracked and itched.
After the cloud dissipated from his vision, he saw the woman who’d kidnapped him crouching, watching his reaction with curiosity. He could see how she was related to Sloan—same beautiful features, wide mouth, plump lips. Except… Sloan’s glossy black hair stood out, framing her face while this woman’s hair blended with her white leather collar. Sloan’s eyes always smiled with mischief, but this woman… when she stared back at Max, he saw a dark chasm yawning with the depths of despair. Soulless, and lonely. She reminded Max of how he’d felt at his lowest—when he believed Sloan had left him after Gale had died.
He’d lost track of time in this place. No windows. No hope of discovering if it were day or night. Having only eaten soggy bread and water, his stomach cramped, revolting at the smell from the bucket in the corner he’d done his business in, and he desperately wanted to raise his hand to test the spot on his cheek where she’d hit, but he couldn’t. His hands were tied.
Daisy moved suddenly and Max flinched. He couldn’t help it. She’d beaten him often, but so far, he’d never been hurt beyond superficial wounds and it was the anticipation of something worse that played on his mind. His eyes went to the blood spray on her white collar and then his mind moved to a conflicting idea. Could it be possible she avoided permanently maiming him for another reason? Was she thinking about her family, about Sloan? Maybe she didn’t go too far on purpose… because she had hoped one day they’d forgive her.
She cocked her head to the side allowing her white mane of hair to swish over her shoulder.
“You are a curious person, Maximillian Johnson,” she stated.
“So are you, Daisy,” he replied.
She blinked. A flicker of something passed in that violet chasm and then her delicate brows puckered. “My name is Despair.”
“That’s not your name. That’s your duty.”
Keep her talking.
It’s all he’d been doing for days on end, and the more they talked, the more likely it was she let slip something important.
“What do you know about duty, Maximillian Johnson?”
