My stomach twists. I already know how the story ends, but that doesn’t make it any less horrific.
“I dug into my savings and Henry’s college fund and wherever I could scrape the money from. I brought it over to this house, this horrible-looking place, where the man said Henry and his friends had been staying.” She takes a break, sobbing quietly.
I squeeze Shelley’s hand, and a tear rolls down my cheek. I wipe it away, taking a deep breath.
“They had killed them all,” she says quietly. “One man was waiting there for me. He put a gun to my head and took the money. He told me that one of my son’s friends had tried to escape and that it was his fault my son was dead. Like that was supposed to shift the blame.”
Her voice cracks at the end, and she curls in on herself, shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs. I lean forward and hold her.
What kind of monsters is Gabriel dealing with right now? This Cartel is ruthless. Brutal. Killing those people—some of them kids—was senseless. And then to take money from a grieving mother while she is confronted with her son’s corpse…Unconscionable.
I cannot believe Gabriel used to work with these monsters. I’m glad he doesn’t anymore. I was wary of his fight against the Cartel initially. I’d had my fill of death and violence, and it seemed to me like it would be better if he left well enough alone. But would it really be so bad if Gabriel wiped them all out?
My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I don’t reach for it. I grab a glass of water for Shelley, and we finish the interview. Once I have everything I need, she walks me to her front door, but before I leave, she grasps my hand in hers.
“Please do something,” she pleads, eyes swimming. “They’re selling to teenagers. Somebody needs to do something.”
I squeeze her hand. “I will.”
I don’t know what else I can do other than what I already have. I can tell their stories, but I can’t force any real change.
But Gabriel can.
I leave and check my phone, noting one new text from Clara.
I’ve missed you so much, my angel.
Huh?
It’s such a strange text that I decide just to call Clara and see what she means. I presume it’s some sort of bad joke that I just don’t get, but at the same time, I’m a little worried that she’s hit the sauce or something.
Her line rings, but Clara doesn’t answer. I try her again. Still nothing. I’m due to meet Ana and Harry at the park, and since Clara’s place is on the way, I decide to swing by and make sure she’s okay. Clara has given me a set of keys.
I try buzzing Clara’s apartment when I arrive, but she doesn’t answer. I let myself in and head up the stairs, quiet unease settling into my stomach like a dense fog. I don’t like this. What if I find her passed out drunk inside? Worse, what if she has been shooting up purple heroin again?
Clara was a recovering alcoholic for years before trying purple heroin. She always seemed so strong, so together. We would go to bars together, and she wouldn’t bat an eyelid at the drinks flowing from the shiny copper taps. I never thought she would slip again, and certainly didn’t think that when she did, she’d swan dive into purple heroin. I can thank her dead boyfriend Killian for that.
I reach Clara’s door and knock. Again, no answer. I go to unlock the door but find it’s already unlocked, which is strange. Clara is obsessive about locking her doors, especially considering the scary year she’s had.
I step inside, and my heart drops into my stomach like a boulder.
The place is totally trashed—furniture overturned, plates smashed across the kitchen tile, plants torn from their pots.
“Clara?” I call, panicked, as I start to search for her.
I comb the whole apartment, even checking under the bed and in the closet, but all I find is destruction. I sink to the floor in her bedroom, sending feathers wafting across the floorboards, and shakily dial 911.
“Hello, 911, what’s your emergency?” comes a male operator’s voice.
“I think my friend has been kidnapped,” I say.
The operator takes some details—Clara’s name, my name, her address, the state of the scene—and, after a quick break to confer with a supervisor, tells me that they will look into it.
“Look into it?” I ask. “Somebody needs to come down here now.”
“Ma’am, we will send an officer when we have one available.”
“But this is an emergency line. Not a ‘when-we-have-one-available’ line.”
He sighs. The man actually sighs, as if I am draining him with my need to look into my friend’s disappearance.
“Someone will look into it,” he repeats. “Have a nice day now.”
The line clicks, and I realize he has hung up on me. I growl in frustration and leap to my feet. I don’t believe for a second that someone will come around to look into this. Could somebody have told him to get me off the phone during that pause? That this was one call they were better off not taking?
This must have something to do with the Cartel or Gabriel or the Irish. The fact that there are so many possible culprits makes me uneasy. What if the Irish took revenge against Clara for killing Killian? What if the Cartel have taken her hostage in response to what I’ve written about them? Or what if Clara did something to piss off Gabriel, thinking that she was helping Harry and me, and he is punishing her for it?
No, Gabriel wouldn’t hurt her. But right now, I think he’s the only person who can help her.
I call Gabriel’s number, and it rings twice and then goes straight to voice mail. I hang up and call again. This time it doesn’t even ring. I swear and swipe my hand through the pile of feathers next to me, but they merely drift softly back to the ground again. Not very satisfying.
His refusal to acknowledge my existence is infuriating. He dragged me into this world, introduced me to demons and devils, and now is pretending that I no longer exist. What if I need him like I do now? Am I supposed to just tell my silent guards to pass along a message to their boss? Has my relationship with Harry’s father, the man who used to hold me and promise he would always keep me safe, actually been reduced to nothing more than a game of telephone?
I call Gabriel again, and when he still won’t answer, decide to leave a voice mail.
“Call me back, asshole. Clara is missing, and I sincerely doubt she has just gone out for milk. This has something to do with you and whatever war you’re fighting right now, and that means that you need to fix this, so help me God.”
I hang up. That felt good. While I’m at it, I decide to unload a couple other things that have been playing on my mind since he shut me out. I call again. Predictably, it goes to voice mail.
“For the record, I do not regret writing that article. Good things came out of it, and in case you didn’t notice, I didn’t include you in it on purpose! To this day, nobody suspects you of being the leader of the Italian mob, nor do they suspect Italian involvement in the purple heroin trade at all. Do you know how famous I could be right now if I’d broken the news that one of the country’s most fawned-over billionaires was the leader of a powerful crime syndicate? Do you think I’d still be writing whatever Debbie Harris deigns to chuck my way each week? Hell, I could have written a book, sold movie rights! So just...I don’t know. Think about that!”