Page 15 of Web of Lies
I press my back against the inside wall. My chest heaves in shallow bursts as I fight the instinct to gasp for air. The footsteps grow louder until they stop just outside the office before stepping inside. I press up against the thin crack in the cabinet, but in the dark, I can only make out the tall silhouette of a man dressed in black.
"Fuck," a deep male voice mutters, followed by a violent impact. I flinch as he kicks the desk, sending a jolt through the floor as it scrapes across the tiles.
My palms grow slick around the papers, my knuckles turning white as I clutch them close to my chest. My heart pounds so violently that every beat echoes in my ears. If this is the Butcher… if he opens this cabinet… I'm not walking out of here.
Every nerve in my body is on high alert, bracing myself for the worst possible outcome. The sweat coating my hands drenches the papers. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from makinga sound. Every second stretches into what feels like an eternity, and all I can do is hope that he leaves instead of tearing the room apart.
After muttering several curses under his breath, the man suddenly storms off. His footsteps are heavy and hurried. The office door slams shut behind him. Soon after, the harsh thud of the back door follows, and the building falls back into a haunting silence.
But I don't move. I don't even breathe. Only after several long, suffocating seconds, making sure he is truly gone, do I inhale. My lungs burn as they inflate with air, and I sink slowly to the floor of the cabinet, clutching the stack of papers closer to my chest. My chest heaves in a frantic rhythm as panic claws at my mind, ready to tear me apart.
That was too close. Too close.
My head lolls back against the wooden wall, and I close my eyes, taking a deep breath to slow the frantic rhythm of my heartbeat. I then reach for my phone, my fingers still shaking as I check the time. I should wait to make sure he's actually gone before I even think about attempting to leave.
Thirty minutes pass in total silence before I push open the cabinet door and step out, searching the room for anything out of place. As carefully as possible, I navigate down the hallway, and once I reach the back door, I slip outside into the fading light of the evening. Without looking back, I blend in with the chaos of the bustling crowd and head straight for the subway station, ready to leave this place for good.
Chapter 8
Riley
I'm curled up on my sofa with a light blanket over my legs and quiet metal music playing in the background. My eyes are fixed on the documents I found at the shop. They don't directly mention the killer, nor do they list any names or personal details of the supplier. However, they contain the complete medical records of several men who went missing over the last decade. Each of these individuals also has a criminal record. In other words, the Butcher isn't a typical serial killer who goes after innocent victims. No, he is targeting individuals within his circle. He studies and assesses their health before killing them, almost as if he's selecting livestock.
At the thought, my stomach twists with nausea. The taste of bile creeps up my throat, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to throw up. I'm surrounded by people who kill for a living every day, yet I still can't wrap my head around how someone can do what he does.
I put the documents aside and lean toward my laptop sitting on my coffee table. With a few clicks, I pull up the secure chatwith Jackson, who still hasn't responded to my last message. Still, I type:
Me:I found something important. It's bigger than I expected. I'll need more time. I'll keep you updated.
I hit send, then collapse back onto the sofa with a sigh. Frustration claws at my skin, and I drag a hand through my wet, tangled hair. This case is like a spiderweb, but every thread I pull leads nowhere. Worse, I'm getting stuck. It's tightening and becoming more difficult to navigate. It was foolish of me to put my actual task on the back burner and focus solely on Mr. Hunt. But he charmed me, just as he does with everyone. Once he has you in his grasp, you follow his every command, and suddenly, everything else in your life feels less important.
I wish I could ask him for help. I wish I could tell him the truth. But if he finds out that I'm a rat and that I could have exposed him all this time, he'll have no choice but to kill me. My chest tightens at the thought of seeing betrayal in his eyes, of breaking his trust and becoming just another liar in his world. With my biological father in prison and having had little to no contact with him over the last seven years, Mr. Hunt has filled the role of a father without ever trying. I crave his approval, his rare words of praise. Every time he trusts me with something important, it feels like I’m worth something, like I’ve earned my place. I don’t want him to look at me and see a traitor instead of one of his adopted daughters.
The thunderous vibration of my phone hitting the table pulls me out of my thoughts. I press the stop button on the timer, jump up from the sofa, and walk into the kitchen, where I check the water bowl I've been using to thaw food for my spiders that prefer lifeless food. I remove the plastic-wrapped insects from the water, cut them open, and place them on a small plate.
I then head to the bedroom, where a large shelf lines one wall, filled with terrariums of various sizes that house my mostprecious possessions. My favorite animal: spiders. I own a wide variety, ranging from different breeds of tarantulas of various sizes, all the way down to adorable little jumping spiders.
I start with the smallest terrarium and work my way through them all until I reach the largest one, which houses my favorite: a female Brazilian black tarantula.
I lift the lid and drop in the live worms. They wiggle across the mossy soil, some getting tangled in the thick web stretched across the substrate. Then, slowly but surely, my favorite girl emerges from her hiding spot. She's pretty docile, curious, bold, and comfortable being handled. Still, I try to keep it to a minimum to reduce the risk of injury to either her or myself.
I watch in awe as she creeps toward the first worm. She's cautious at first, but then jumps and attacks. She grabs it, holds tight, and eats. A smile tugs at my lips as she reaches for another worm trapped in her perfectly woven web.
My gaze sweeps across the patterned webbing. Each strand she spins serves a purpose. Every knot is for survival. Years ago, I told myself that I could do the same, that I could spin a web strong enough to protect me. But mine is twisted and tangled, sagging under the weight of secrets I'm losing control of. What was supposed to trap others is becoming my downfall, and I'm running in circles.
I'm pulled out of my thoughts when the doorbell rings. I furrow my brows, straighten up, and glance at the alarm clock on my nightstand, which reads nine p.m. The smile on my face widens. I close the terrarium lid and hurry to the front door.
When I pull it open, I find Kyle standing on my doorstep with a bag of takeout in hand. He's wearing a black T-shirt and shorts. His hair is damp and messier than usual, as if someone had run a hand through it. A five o'clock shadow shades his face, and a glowing cigarette hangs loosely between his lips.
"Hey, Freckles," he says, as he takes the cigarette from his mouth and leans in to place a quick kiss on my lips.
"Come in now," I whisper against his lips. "Before my neighbors get mad about someone smoking in the hallway." I step aside, and he brushes past me, heading straight to the living room. I close and lock the door before hurrying after him. He sets the bags down right beside the papers scattered across the room that I'd been working on. With a curious frown, he glances down at the documents. Panic rises in my chest, and I dash past him, gathering the papers into one pile and stuffing them back into a folder.
"Still working at this ungodly hour?" he asks, eyeing the folder in my hands.
"Yes, I'm doing some research. Nothing crazy," I say, sounding as casual as possible as I put everything aside.
"That old man is working you too hard."
