A slam resounds, and I jerk my head to the source, my heart racing in anticipation as the door bangs against the wall.
It’s not Devon.
The flicker of hope drops into my stomach, morphing into a cold chunk of disappointment the second Nick barges in, nostrils flaring and steps pounding like a bull ready to charge.
His deadly glare tells me I’m in for a counterstrike that he couldn’t wait to deliver since last night. Locking my jaw, I brace myself for his fist, but the moment it connects with my cheek, I wished I’d at least tried to deflect his punch.
Fuck me, my little brother knows how to dish out. His daily punching bag sessions in the gym have paid off. I almost double over, but I grip the edge of the minibar at the last second.
“Guess I deserved that,” I mutter when I find my footing again.
“You guessed right.” His flinty eyes bore into mine. “You look like shit.”
“I feel like shit.”
“Good.”
Nick shakes his hand to get rid of the pain from the punch he just delivered while I grind my jaw to test the movement. All bones still in place.
He kicks the empty Single Malt bottle on the floor, the disbelief in his eyes hard to miss as they roam over the destruction.
“Shit, Nathan… What the fuck is going on?”
I tear my gaze away from him, the bruise under his eye reminding me that he’d been the casualty of my frustration last night. Walking over to the window, I try to get my thoughts in order.
“Do you know the name of the Russian interpreter from last night?” I ask.
He gives me a quizzical look as he heaves up the living room table and puts it back the way it was. “What?”
“The Russian interpreter,” I repeat with an edge to my voice. “Do you know who she was?”
“No. Why?”
I rub a hand over my neck. “It was Devon.”
A beat of silence follows as he tries to make sense of my words before his eyes grow wide. “Your girl from Silent Sins?”
Yes, the one and only. My dragonfly girl.
Unable to swallow down the lump in my throat, I nod.
“So, that’s why you flipped out last night, almost bowling down a waitress and making one hell of a scene in the middle of the gallery.”
I ignore his accusing tone, my eyes following a blue Toyota as I look down at the street—the same model Devon disappeared in yesterday.
Pushing up my sleeves, I turn around to face Nick. “I need your help to find her.”
“What you need is a wake-up call, brother.” He comes closer, moving into my personal space. “You’re chasing a ghost, and it’s driving you mad. Not long, and you’ll drown in your obsession. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”
He nods to the empty bottles of booze on the ground. I grind my teeth. No one knows better than me what Nick went through before he met Janice, but what I’m dealing with here is an entirely different matter.
My lips flatten into a line. “Devon isn’t a ghost. She’s real. I saw her. I just need to find her.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head as if I were a lost cause.
I put a hand on his shoulder. “Help me, Nick. Please.”
His gaze flicks up to me, and he sighs, his eyes softening.
“Okay.”
~~~
After taking a much-needed shower and consuming a bottle of water to wash down my hangover, I join Nick in the living room where he has made himself comfortable on the sofa.
Grabbing my laptop from the table, I hand it to him. “Show me the recordings from yesterday.”
“And what do you hope to find?” he asks as he logs into the gallery’s camera feed.
Anything that might lead me to her.
“I don’t know.”
I stare at the screen as Nick speeds up the recording, my gaze flicking between six different feeds. Shortly before the last guests have arrived, a dark-haired beauty enters the gallery and my heart lodges in my throat at the mere sight of her.
“Freeze,” I order, and Nick hits a key to pause the clip.
A shaky breath trembles over my lips. Her green-blue dragonfly tattoo is visible as she lifts her left hand to tug a strand of hair behind her ear. A wing of the dragonfly charm peeks out from underneath her blouse, held by a gold chain around her neck. I lean over Nick’s shoulder, itching to trace a finger over her image.
‘What do you wear for work?’ I’d asked her when we first met.
‘Cookie pants.’
She probably mostly works from home as a translator, snuggling on a couch in cozy pants with a laptop in her lap and a bowl of cookies within reach. The thought plasters a stupid grin on my face.
“Do you want me to print this out so you’ve got a picture to jerk off to?” Nick grumbles when I stare holes at the screen with my mouth agape.
I clear my throat, backing away. “Who hired her?”
“Valerie.”
Shit. Valerie quit yesterday. Another sweet girl who broke under Brooke Crawford’s dictatorship.
I pull my phone from my pocket and drop it into his lap. “Give me Valerie’s private number.”
His look of annoyance tells me what he thinks of me bossing him around, but he grabs his phone and scrolls through his contacts. My foot taps on the ground as I wait for him to punch in the number. When he’s done, I take my phone from his hands and connect the call. Twelve rings later, I give up with a huff.
“She’s not picking up.”
“Let’s check the guest list.”
Nick opens a document, and I lean closer again to scan the list of names.
“Shit,” he curses after a moment. “Valerie didn’t update the list. There’s still the name of the old interpreter on it.”
He points to an unfamiliar name at the bottom. Initially, Abram Orlov was hired for the job, but he had an accident shortly before the exhibition. It was only at the last minute that Valerie found a replacement. Alas, the girl forgot to update the damn guest list.
Maybe Brooke had a good reason to fire her.
I push away from the sofa, tapping my phone against my chin while I pace my room. Think, Nathan. There has to be a way.
“Her payment,” I say. “Where did we transfer the money to?”
“We paid her in cash.”
“Then check the press releases,” I say at last. “National Jeweler Magazine, Jewelry Artist, Ornament, The Times… Whatever you can find.”
He turns his head, cocking an eyebrow at me. “And how the hell is that supposed to help?”
No idea, but I’ll leave no stone unturned.
“Just do it.”
While Nick attacks Google, I put my phone to my ear to call Brooke. She picks up on the last ring—as usual when my name pops up on her screen.
“Nathan,” she says in surprise. “I’m currently having a beauty treatment, so unless this is about—”
“Do you know the name of the Russian interpreter from last night?” I cut right in, not in the mood for her antics.
“Excuse me?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, already regretting that I’ve even asked. Why do I always have to repeat that fucking question? Do I speak Chinese?
“The Russian interpreter from yesterday,” I say, slower this time. “Do you know who she was?”