Page 16 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
I turn away from my brother to stare out the kitchen window into the darkness. The alert feels even more urgent now.
What if Asher's movement is connected to these women?
"I noticed something else about those girls..." Miguel adds quietly.
He leans closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "Several had the same unusual injection sites—subconjunctival spaces under their eyelids, between scalp layers hidden by hair, the intercostal spaces between ribs."
My skin prickles. The room suddenly feels colder despite the steam rising from the sink.
"Like someone with medical training?" I pick up another plate, trying to keep my hands busy while my thoughts race at triple speed, already matching this information against known trafficking techniques in my databases.
"Exactly. Places that wouldn't show during standard examinations or casual encounters with clients." His eyes narrow. "Locations you'd only know from advanced anatomy training."
My throat tightens. "Sedatives?"
"More sophisticated than that." Migs rinses a glass with careful movements. "Compounds designed to make them compliant without appearing drugged. Some sort of autonomic system suppressant mixed with a mood stabilizer. The kind of pharmaceutical knowledge that goes beyond street chemists."
I set down the dish towel, my fingers tingling with the need to get to my laptop, to run these details through my databases. The same tingles I feel when I'm close to cracking a complex security system.
"I have names," he murmurs, "three victims who might talk to someone they trust. Not police."
The kitchen light flickers briefly, casting shifting shadows across his worried face. In the dining room, laughter erupts over dessert as Tito Ramon tells another exaggerated story about his college days.
"Text them to me." My voice sounds strange to my own ears, too intense.
My phone buzzes against my hip again. The second alert.
"You okay?" Kuya Migs' eyes narrow, professional demeanor replacing brotherly concern. "Is this too much?"
"No, I'm fine."
My thoughts split in two directions, trafficking victims with surgical injection marks versus imagining Asher's hands.
Would those steady fingers be administering those injections or fighting against them?
The muscles between my shoulder blades tighten into the same configuration they adopt during high-risk hacks. My body is preparing for a digital battle.
"I need their medical records." I force my thoughts back to the victims. "I know that's asking a lot, but this could mean their lives." He just nods.
Yet, as Miguel outlined the control mechanisms used on these women, I wonder about Asher's role.Is he part of this network? A victim of it? A hunter like me?
I glance down at my phone as it lights up with another notification. My pulse quickens as I see that Asher Cross is leaving San Francisco, heading back towards Sacramento. My program worked perfectly, tracking him through security cameras, toll transponders, and credit card purchases.
The data tells a story: he's returning to my territory, back to where I can monitor him closely.
Tomorrow I'll be just a barista again, serving him coffee with a smile while secretly dismantling his carefully constructed identity, piece by piece. The hunter and the hunted, separated only by the steam from an espresso machine.
My program pings one final time with his exact coordinates. He's crossed the Bay Bridge, accelerating toward Sacramento. Back to my hunting ground.
For the first time in years, my typically scattered thoughts crystalize around a single point of fascination: Asher Cross.
five
Asher
The little bell jingles when I step inside Temple Coffee Roasters. Only a few patrons remain, their faces lit by warm golden lights hanging from above. The rich smell of just-ground coffee fills my nose, mixing with the alternative music playing softly from speakers I can't see.
My eyes sweep the room automatically. No dark hair with pink streaks.
