I don’t hesitate. I fold the note and slip it into the inner pocket of my jacket, closing the door to the room as I leave.
Finding him isn’t hard. The men’s hockey team is housed in the village, their morale famously in the gutter. I find him in a common area lounge, alone, slouched in an armchair and staring blankly at a sports highlight show that replays his own catastrophic own goal.
He sees me approaching, and his face contorts into a sneer. “Oh, fuck off. You’re not welcome here. Go babysit your own team.”
I stop in front of him, blocking his view of the TV. I say nothing. Just let the weight of my presence press down on him.
“I said get lost,” he barks, starting to push himself up from the chair.
I don’t move. I reach into my jacket and pull out the crumpled note, holding it out so he can see the scrawled message without me having to release it.
His eyes drop to the paper, and his sneer freezes, melting away. All the color draining from his face.
His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. His eyes go wide with panic that isn’t caused by anything that has to do with me.
“Where is she, Theo?” My voice is low, a quiet rumble that holds the promise of breaking every bone in his body.
He flinches, cowering down into the armchair.
“I don’t know where she is.” His voice is timid.
I want to say he’s lying, but the terror on his face is real. It’s the fear of someone who knows about a monster.
“This was in her room. You know where her room is. You were the last one to harass her. And now she’s missing.” I take a step closer. “Talk now. Or I’ll makesure your shoulder injury from that hit becomes a permanent career-ending condition.”
He shrinks into the chair, looking like all the air is deflating from his body.
“It wasn’t me.” He no longer sounds scared or guilty. Just accepting what's happening like there’s nothing that can be done about it.
“I know who it might be. And if it’s them…” he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You’re already too late.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Violet
Consciousness returns in a nauseating wave, the world tilting and swaying beneath me.
Not the world. A metal floor.
The taste of chemicals coats my tongue, and a throbbing ache pulses behind my eyes with every bump we hit.
I’m awkwardly curled on my side. My hands are bound behind my back, and the rough plastic of zip-ties digs into my wrists. I try to move them, but my fingers are numb. Panic cuts through the fog of chemicals swimming in my head.
Where am I?
Darkness. An array of smells assaults my senses. Gasoline, oil, and stale sweat tell me I’m in a moving vehicle.
But something else. Oranges? Old cigarettes?
Voices cut in from the front, muffled.
“…deep enough out by the old warehouse. Current is strong this time of year. It’ll do the trick.”
“Just make sure the blocks are secure. Boss doesn’t want anything resurfacing.”
A cold seeps into my bones, different from the metal of the floor.
Warehouse. Blocks. Currents. The words are painting a picture so final, so simple that my mind is skittering away from it. No. That’s for the movies. Not for me. Not in Milan.
