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RYDEN
Millicent gave a begrudging nod. “Play it again.” Her eyes sharpened as she listened to it. “There. Stop right there,” she said, hitting the table with a frown.
“What?”
“She said something about two contradicting lies can’t build a truth,” Millicent said, her dark brown eyes fixated on the recorder. “Play it again.”
I played it once again.
“Yes. It must be her. Kasey Thompson. She was seventeen. Smart, too. Brown hair. Mousy. Some men don’t care about how ugly they are. Only how young they are, and she was.” The cruelty in her eyes made me almost flinch. And I knew death, worse. I had seen evil in its eyes, and this woman here was pure evil.
I wanted to grab something sharp and plunge it into her larynx—that would stop her from talking. She continued, unaffected by the fury in my eyes. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. They all needed money, and I gave them a way to live and not die. It’s not wrong. I’m not a motherfucking killer.” Millicent scoffed, slamming her palm against the metal table.
“She says otherwise,” I said, thinking about K.Y. Wolff.
“I don’t care what she says or what anyone says. I did not kill Victor. I was very fond of him. Find who killed him, and then get me the hell out of this rotten place,” she said, turning to glare at Flemming. “Or I’ll be looking for a new lawyer.” Flemming coughed.
“Do you know where she lives? Lived?”
“She was from Delray. I don’t keep accounts of their lives after they leave.”
“Your time’s up,” the officer pulled Millicent from her seat before she gave me a small nod.
“So, now that you know who this woman is… do you think she is the killer? This Kasey Thompson?” Flemming asked, looking at me with inquisitive eyes.
“No. She’s not the killer.”
“Then what the hell are we doing here?” Flemming growled as we walked out of the prison.
“Well.” Shrugging, I opened my car.
“You’re not going to tell me anything? You freaking—”
I rolled the window down, and with a wave to him, drove away.
Reah, my trusty computer genius, lived in a rundown apartment the size of a matchbox with her gadgets and computer. She was a tall woman with a sharp smile and even sharper words.
“Hey, Reah.”
“Ryden,” she said, opening the door wide, her neon green hair a mess on her head.
The naked woman on her bed flushed and pulled the blanket up her body, and Reah let out a chuckle. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Sinclair?” She motioned me to follow into a smaller kitchen.
“I need to find someone.”
“Your Wolff? She’s practically a ghost. There’s no trace of her anywhere. Even her most ardent fans don’t know anything about her. She is so fucking good. If you ever find that girl, I want to meet her.” Reah’s eyes twinkled.
“Not Wolff. This one is a woman who might lead me to Wolff,” I said, sitting down on the three-and-a-half-legged chair. She was my unofficial partner. But she only knew the things she should know, and she always assumed that the things I asked for were for the journalist side of my life.
“Well. How much are you paying me?”
“Find her, and I’ll pay you whatever you ask for.”
“That’s such a wrong thing to say, considering how well you know me.” She chuckled and walked to the only room that didn’t look like it was being hit by a hurricane.
She sat in front of her laptop. “Who are we finding?”
“Kasey Thompson. She must be around twenty-five or something. Lived in Delray. Brown hair. That is all I have.”
