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No.
Even as the questions passed through my mind, I knew the answer. Kenzie and I floated a lot of theories back and forth, but just watching her fuss and hover over a suit she’d never wear, it became obvious. These weren’t just clothes to her, they were her art. An artist doesn’t pass off the final touches.
And this guy wasn’t either. The trackers in the buttons were his masterpiece. The grand trick that makes the audience faint right out of their seats. I bet he gets a hard-on every time he sews one on, laughing at the stupid Merchants handing the Brotherhood their deaths.
No, the rat was definitely doing his own work, but was he doing it in here?
I studied the interns, making them all uncomfortable. It couldn’t be one of these grunts—working in this exposed space with a dozen other people and more coming in and out every day.
Again, no. It’s not an intern.
“Good work, everyone.” I thumped some random guy on the back on my way out. I think he said thanks.
This is why I needed to be here. First week on the job and I’ve eliminated a dozen suspects.
My next stop was the junior designers’ room. I made eye contact with Lyla coming through the door. She locked on me from her spot by the window and looked away just as fast, cheeks reddening. She hadn’t meant for me to see her lose control. She’s still trying to play like she’s the angel.
That just means she’ll make it look like an accident. I know that look. I am the living embodiment of that look. Kenzie’s got a target on her back for as long as Lyla breathes.
I forced myself to look away, taking a slow scan of the room. The promotion from intern to junior was reflected in this room. It was as big as the intern space, but for fewer people. Each junior designer had a workstation and a desk—both with desk dividers that gave them a little privacy.
Was it risky to mess around with trackers in here? Yes, but it wasn’t impossible. Position this or that just right, and no one sees what your hands are doing unless they’re on top of you.
They could definitely be one of the junior designers. I narrowed on Lyla. And it could definitely be you.
I gave Dawson a reprieve and made for the Closet. I didn’t need to check out the senior designers’ offices to know they had plenty of privacy to get up to all kinds of shit. The rat could be one of them, the only issue was we never had just a single designer working for our account.
There were too many of us ordering new clothes up to once a week. One designer wasn’t creating for all of us, but all of us had trackers in our clothes. They were dipping in on their fellow coworkers’ handiwork, and Kenzie swore the easiest way to do that was to tamper with them while they were in the Closet.
When the clothes were done, fitted, and ready to go. That’s when they all let them out of their sight.
I approached the doors fast. She shot out from the coffee nook.
“Hey, you. I told you that you can’t go in—”
“Back, witch!” I flashed my badge in her face. “You’re gonna have to steal another girl’s voice, Ursula. Not me, not today.”
She sputtered, “I beg your pardon? Who do you think you’re—?” The doors closed in her face mid-sentence. Finally, I was in the motherfucking Closet.
“This is what all the fuss is about?”
The place wasn’t a closet, it was a department store. The racks were laid out like library stacks that twisted, curved, and turned—inviting you to dip down a maze-like passage surrounded by clothes. Taking up the middle of the room were accessories display cases—belts, gloves, and hats. The closet seemed to go on for miles, providing more than enough cover and quiet for someone to work in here.
I turned to go.
“—going to do?”
Twisting around, I soundlessly crept past a case of ugly hats.
“...don’t have a choice...”
That voice. I neared the eighth rack from the door. I know that voice.
I turned the corner, taking in the endless sea of couture. The voices got louder, leading me around the bend.
“...should stop... too risky.”
Stopping, I shoved my hands through the fabric and shoved them apart.
“Ahh!” Zoe screeched, shooting back and tripping over her feet. Jace didn’t handle it any more gracefully. He tipped over, collapsing under a pile of fallen garment bags.
“What the hell are you doing?!” the pile bellowed.
“What am I doing?” I said lightly. “I came down here to find out how easy it is to help myself to a dress, and then put it back without anyone knowing. What are you two doing hiding in the clothes?”
“We weren’t hiding,” Zoe snapped. “We were talking. This is the only spot in the building you can get any privacy.”
