Page 15 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
The vibration against my side startles me into awareness. My head buzzes with recognition before I even glance at BB-8's screen, knowing my code's alert pattern by heart.
My hand darts toward my pocket without thought, bumping my water glass. The glass wobbles before I get a grip on it, but not before I spill some water onto the burgundy tablecloth.
"Ay nako, Vanessa!" Mom jumps up for napkins.
"Sorry, sorry." My skin tingles with expectation, recognizing that if the program signals me, Asher has shifted to a marked location or accessed something important online.
"Everything okay?" Kuya Migs asks, his doctor's eyes assessing me sharply.
"Just work..." I mumble, dabbing at the spill. "The café needs me to come in early tomorrow."
I excuse myself from the table, gathering empty plates to escape the pressure. The kitchen offers temporary sanctuary, its familiar white tiles and humming stainless steel appliances a welcome break from the interrogation in the dining room.
The stack of plates clatters as I set them beside the sink. My phone burns in my pocket, but I resist checking it. Whatever Asher's doing will have to wait until I can slip away properly.
The information waiting to be analyzed buzzes in my brain, a nagging sensation I can't ignore. It's like having numbers and code scratching just beneath my consciousness, begging to be sorted and understood.
"Need a hand?"
I turn to find Kuya Migs rolling up his sleeves, blue tie loosened, doctor-mode temporarily switched off.
"Sure. You wash, I'll dry?" I hand him the dish soap, grateful for the company.
We fall into a comfortable rhythm, the sound of running water and clinking dishes creating a barrier between us and the family chatter beyond the kitchen door. Through the pass-through window, I can see Mom refilling wine glasses while Dad flashes photos of Jinky's law firm on his phone.
"So," Kuya Migs says casually, keeping his voice low as he scrubs a stubborn spot on a serving platter, "you're still working the trafficking cases, aren't you?"
The plate I'm drying nearly slips from my fingers. "How did—"
"I'm not completely clueless, Nessa." His expression softens. "You forget I was the one who found you coding at 3 AM when you were twelve."
"I thought everyone believed the coffee shop story."
"Mom and Dad want to. It's easier." He hands me a clean glass. "I've been seeing girls in the ER... escorts with suspicious injuries, all from the same escort service."
My pulse quickens. "What kind of injuries?"
"Nothing that screams abuse at first glance. Sprained wrists, bruised ribs. But it's their behavior that concerns me." He lowers his voice further. "Rehearsed stories. Fear responses to authority."
The dish towel twists in my hands. "Signs of control."
"Exactly. And the medications we find in their systems..." He shakes his head. "Designer compounds that don't show up on standard tox screens. I had to send samples to a specialized lab."
My thoughts connect like electrical currents. The same sophisticated chemical markers I'd found in Jenny's toxicology report—compounds that shouldn't exist in commercial pharmaceuticals.
"These aren't street workers, Nessa." Migs touches my arm, his fingers still damp from dishwater. "These girls have expensive clothes, professional makeup. It's like they're being prepped for high-end clientele. Custom-built merchandise."
A chill spreads through my chest. Asher's perfect cover story flashes through my mind.
Flawless but fabricated.
Could he be connected to this?The polished victims Kuya Migs describes mirror the sleek control I sensed in Asher.
"How many have you seen?" I question, my fingers automatically darting toward my cell before I deliberately return them to the soapy dishes.
"Six in the past three months. All between eighteen and twenty-five."
Just like the women Jenny was tracking before her accident, the one I never believed was random. My stomach tightens with the same knot it forms when I uncover something that confirms my worst suspicions.
