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“Why not?” Ares whispers.
He doesn’t answer.
“Warren,” Zander whispers. “We’ll find out, regardless. Tell us.”
What is there to tell?
Warren just lowers the sticky note, looking to his very feet.
“He’s dead.”
Impossible. We… just saw him.
As if sensing our disbelief, he pulls out a single Polaroid, presenting it to us to acknowledge the pink framed photograph with a tiny bunny symbol on the bottom left corner.
The image, however, renders us speechless.
Moonshine.
Lying on his back, screaming as his limbs are outstretched and tied, naked.
As he’s in the midst of being burned to ash…
“The smoke…” Zander whispers.
“That’s where this sticky note laid with this photo,” Warren reveals, not hiding his obvious distraught. “Mr. Leighton, Mr. Prescott, and other influential empires have been notified.”
“We don’t know who it is,” I confess, not recognizing my own voice.
How raw and uncertain it is.
“The owner of that shirt is the culprit,” Warren mutters, drawing us to look back at Iva.
Forcing me to realize that isn’t my shirt.
Walking up to the bed, I force myself to move slowly enough not to wake Iva in the slightest. Touching the material, I realize it isn’t mine.
The quality is richer. The fabric far softer, feeling like the highest element of material that cost more than my five hundred dollar t-shirts.
“Musk and leather,” Ares whispers, and I can only assume he’s talking about the scent as he now stands beside me. “It’s not yours but looks the same size.”
“It’s expensive quality,” I grumble, hating the idea of another man’s clothing on Iva’s delicate flesh.
“Diesel.”
We look to Zander.
“A person?” I ask for clarification.
“No.” Zander slowly shakes his head as he walks to the opposite of the bed. Reaching over, he gently grips Iva’s arm. We quickly shuffle back, realizing he’s waking Iva up.
I want to curse, but Warren has his hand over my mouth, shutting me up as we stand in the corner of the room.
“Dolcezza?”
Iva’s eyes open swiftly, but not a second later, they’re drooping. She seems to look our way for a moment, and I’m not sure why I grow rigid as she tries to look further into what I can hope is a dark enough corner for her not to see us.
“Here, Sweet Dynamite,” Zander encourages her to look over her shoulder, which she does. “There you are.”
