“They’re part of a secret society,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with fear.
“Like the Illuminati?” I ask, completely baffled by this.
“I guess. They have their hands in everything, but nobody knows who they really are,” he explains, continuing to search the area, likely ensuring we’re not caught gossiping about things we have no business discussing.
“You do not want to cross them, Alyssa. Be very careful with the questions you ask. Poking your nose around here will not end well for you or your friends,” he warns, casting a glance toward the back room where Nina and Jill are.
I nod my understanding.
My heart races as I realize the gravity of what I have stumbled upon. This is no ordinary illegal poker tournament—it’s a gathering of the elite, the powerful, the secretive.
People who could’ve been involved in the murder of Chelsea Grayson.
But how?
We’re in Florida. She was killed in Massachusetts, and the woman with the tattoo is from New York.
Could this society have roots in the New England area?
“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t,” Tad cautions. “Enjoy your drink, and when you leave, put this place as far out of your mind as possible.”
I ponder everything that he’s said, knowing that I won’t turn my back on what I’ve learned here. I was shown that tattoo in order to help solve Chelsea’s murder, and I will use whatever knowledge I have to do just that. While it’s unlikely these individuals were directly involved in her death, the presence of that tattoo strongly suggests someone within their circle might be.
I take a sip of my drink as Tad busies himself pouring more drinks and occasionally wiping down the bar, shooting me cautious glances in between. I’m about to order one more and head back to the girls when I feel a presence beside me. I look up and my breath hitches.
Harlan leans over the bar, but beside him, a spectral figure flickers in and out of existence, glaring menacingly at the side of his head. The apparition appears to be that of an elderly gentleman, the signs of age evident even in his ghostly form. I estimate he’s in his mid- to late seventies.
My spine straightens as the ghost turns to me, a sinister smile spread across his wickedly cold face. Except I don’t know who he is.
“Tad, could I get my usual?” Harlan requests, completely oblivious to the ghost that seems to wish him harm.
“Of course, sir,” Tad replies promptly, springing into action.
A bead of sweat collects at Harlan’s temple, and he swipes away at it.
“Are you all right?” I ask, unable to peel my eyes from Harlan or the ghost, just beyond him.
He tilts his head. “Fine. Just need that drink,” he says, chuckling.
I smile, forcing a small laugh. “You and me both.” I lift my now-empty glass into the air, and Harlan smirks.
“And another for the lady, Tad.”
Tad bows his head slightly, not looking up from the drink he’s pouring.
The ghostly figure remains fixed on Harlan’s profile, his gaze unwavering even as he flickers in and out of existence. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve stumbled into something far more dangerous than a simple game of poker. It’s clear that the secrets of The Communes run deep and that uncovering them could come at a price.
A price that this spirit might have paid personally.
18
Wheel of Fortune
As soon asTad had handed Harlan his drink, both he and the sinister ghost disappeared. Thank god.
I took Tad’s advice and refrained from asking any additional questions surrounding the tattoo and the supposed secret society attached to it. Instead, I joined my friends in the other room and allowed the women they’d been playing with to teach me how to play spades.
We had a great time, laughing and drinking into the early morning hours. I even managed to forget about that angry spirit that had been present.
