Page 14 of Web of Lies
Chapter 7
Riley
The afternoon sun touches my skin like a million sharp needles, poking me. I just got rid of my last sunburn, and I applied sunscreen before going outside. Yet my skin feels stretched and tight, as if it’s beginning to swell. Every brush of fabric against my arms makes it worse, like rubbing sandpaper over an open wound. I love my red hair and freckles, but this is the one part of being a redhead I hate with a passion.
On top of the heat, the lingering exhaustion from a sleepless night—one drink too many and being fucked until sunrise—throbs inside my skull as if the night itself is still pulsing through me.
However, today is one of my rare full days off, and I need to make the most of it. With one earbud in, I walk down the busy shopping street near the upscale Bay Area. Shiny storefronts line the sidewalks, each showcasing high-end products behind extra-thick glass. The chatter of shoppers blends with the faint thrum of music spilling from the stores.
My headphones buzz with static noise until a voice finally cuts through. "Sorry," Evelyn says. "Noah knows nothing aboutthe Butcher." A frustrated grunt rattles in my throat. How the hell does he not know anything? He spent years at the top of New York's underworld, has worked with and collected dirt on politicians, cartels, and smugglers, but the Butcher is a stranger to him?
"Do you believe him?" The words slip out harsher than I intended, making me sound like an asshole. Evelyn has dealt with more than her fair share of lies and secrets from him, and they're still learning to trust each other. And here I am, dropping doubt into her hands about the man she’s going to marry. I know I shouldn’t. She deserves peace, not more second-guessing. However, I can't shake the feeling that something is off. I don't trust him. He’s a liar, and he’s proven that before.
"I have no reason to doubt him about this," she says. "He knows people in the consumer circle, but not the sellers, except for a few restaurants, which he is willing to share with you."
"It can't hurt to look into them." It's not much, but it's better than nothing. With a list of businesses that still work with the Butcher, I might find useful information, such as payment methods or delivery schedules that could lead me to names.
"Of course. I'll let him know," she says, followed by rustling on her end. "Why are you asking? Is Mr. Hunt looking for him?"
"Something like that."
Evelyn hums. "I'm surprised he doesn't know who it is."
"Me too, but he claims he has no ties to anyone associated with him."
"Maybe even he's in the dark for once. It wouldn't be too shocking if someone like the Butcher wants to stay anonymous. I mean, killing someone is one thing, but harvesting organsandprocessing the meat?"
"Exactly." I sigh as I turn the corner, and my eyes land on the sign for my destination—the butcher shop from the latest raid. "I need to hang up now. I'll message you later, okay?"
"Sure," she says, and we exchange our goodbyes before I end the call and take out my earbud, put it back in its case, and drop it into my bag.
When I reach the store, I come to a halt. A wave of annoyance rolls through my chest when I see the lights are off and the place is wiped out. I take a step closer, press a hand against the glass to block the sunlight, and peer inside.
I take a step back and glance up at the sign above me. It shouldn't be a surprise; stores that get caught rarely reopen in the exact location. If they reopen at all, that is. The raid on this one wasn't all that long ago. There's a good chance the owner is still being detained for the investigation.
I'm not sure whether I should consider myself lucky or unlucky. Either way, I didn't want to talk to him. I just wanted to look around and see if anything looked suspicious. When I peek around the corner, I spot the back door, which is used for deliveries. Breaking in through the front would be far too obvious.
Taking a quick look around, I find that a few people are walking by, but they all seem busy. Without waiting another second, I slip into the alley and walk up to the door, which is covered in yellow police tape that reads, "Caution: Crime Scene." I reach for the doorknob and, to my surprise, the door creaks open. My attention lands on the broken lock that the police must have damaged when they forced their way in.Lucky for me.
I pull my semi-automatic pistol out of my bag, duck under the tape, and slip into the store while leaving the door slightly ajar. The darkness swallows me whole. Despite the scorching heat outside, the air in here is cool, like a quiet, chilling cold clinging to the space. It wraps around me like a warning. There's something about this place that feels off, and the eerie atmosphere makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
With careful steps, I head down the hallway until I reach the front and peek around the corner. I scan the room slowly, eyes tracing every shelf, corner, and crack in the wall, searching for any sign of a hidden compartment or storage. The shop is entirely wiped clean, not a single utensil, scrap of packaging, or sign of activity left behind, like it's been stripped to the bone. Although hiding things in plain sight is often the easiest approach, I can't imagine that's the case here.
I then turn and head back, keeping my steps quiet as I tiptoe to the open door leading into what appears to be an office. It's just like the front; everything is gone, except for an old wooden desk pushed up against the wall, a dirty chair, and some built-in cabinets. I step inside, approach the desk, and start pulling open each drawer, one by one, only to find them all empty. The same goes for the cabinets.
Frustration flares up in my chest, and I sigh as I turn on my heels and scan the room again. My gaze shifts toward the ceiling, and that's when I notice the industrial neon lights and, more importantly, the slightly cracked ceiling panel beside one of them.
"Got you," I mutter, furrowing my brows as I shove my gun back into my bag. I pull out a pair of latex gloves, slip them on, and grip the table, dragging it across the floor until it's directly beneath the lamp. I climb on top and carefully push against the cracked panel, and it lifts with ease. Dust rains down, and I squeeze my eyes shut, raising my arm to cover my nose as I fight off the sneeze tickling my nose.
Despite the fear that crawls up my spine at the thought of reaching into the darkness, I take a deep breath and stick my hand in. When my fingers brush against a stack of papers, my eyes widen. I grab them and pull them out, staring at the dusty top sheet.
I hop down from the table and flip open the document. My breath catches in my throat as my eyes land on a man's profile, which includes his medical history ranging from prescribed medications to potential health struggles. Leaning against the table, I flip through the pages, coming across dozens of names and detailed patient histories—everything needed to confirm someone's overall health.
I'm lost in the pages, going over person after person, my eyes darting across the records as I try to make sense of it all and piece together the details. When suddenly the hinges of the back door creak, followed by footsteps thundering down the hallway.
Shit.
My head whips up, and my pulse quickens as adrenaline floods my senses. I clutch the papers to my chest and scan the windowless room. My eyes land on the cabinets across from me. I rush over, squeeze myself inside, and pull the door shut just in time.
