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But my predecessor doesn’t.

It’s as if her entire life has been scrubbed off Google.

“What is it?” Thea peers over my shoulder.

“I found the name of this woman. Asha Paisley. She owned the Jade Sanctum before Rouge took over.”

“And?”

“And in the entire internet, there’s only one mention of her. This article in the Tribune.”

Thea shrugs. “Some people like to keep a low profile.”

I shake my head. “People who like to keep low profiles don’t run clubs like the Jade Sanctum. For example”—I type my own name into the search bar and dozens of results come up—“you can see I’m widely known. So are the other owners of the clubs she used to own.” I scratch at my forehead. “It’s not adding up.”

“Let me try.” Thea grabs the bag she brought from her place. Dodo comes running. “Nothing in here for you, sweetie.”

“I might have some milk in the fridge if she wants some,” I offer.

“Milk is actually pretty bad for cats. Common misconception,” Thea says. “But I brought a few days’ worth of kibble. I’ll feed her soon.” She grabs her laptop and plunks it down next to mine. “Where did you start?”

“I searched Rouge Montrose and then filtered out results before March of last year. That’s when she died, so all the articles after that are about the organ stuff.”

“Right.” She opens her laptop. “Let me show you a little trick of the trade for us in the news.” She opens a search engine whose name I don’t recognize—Quadmunch. “This is like Google, but you can refine your search results much more efficiently. Ever since twenty-four-seven news became a thing, a lot of the smaller stories get lost in the bigger ones, so this helps us when we’re trying to fill our segments on a slow day. You can filter out anything from a major news source. So we can search Rouge Montrose’s name and not see a million articles from the big networks all rehashing the same story.”

She clicks, and the resulting page is much smaller than what I found on Google. Still quite a few results but a much more manageable sampling, mostly personal blogs and independent news websites.

“Anything about Asha Paisley?” I ask. “I can’t get her out of my head.”

Thea searches. “No, I’m afraid not.”

I scratch my chin. “How about just Paisley? And Rouge Montrose?”

“You’ll probably get some podcast interview about her favorite fashion patterns.”

“I don’t care. Just search it.”

Thea nods, scanning the screen. “Interesting.”

“What?” I crane my neck toward her laptop.

“I was right. There are a few articles pertaining to fashion, but then there’s this little blog. It looks like an obit.” He scrunches his lips. “Why would an obituary include the word ‘paisley?’”

“Open it up.”

Thea nods and clicks.

The blog is rudimentary, like the websites in the late nineties. No ads, no fancy headers. Just text and some heavily pixeled artwork. The name of the blog? Not Here Anymore.

The word “Paisley” is in the blog tags at the bottom, along with “Rouge Montrose,” “Aces Underground,” and “organ harvesting.” Then a slew of other patterns: “houndstooth,” “gingham,” “polka dots,” and more.

“Even weirder,” I say. “The other three tags are what you’d expect to see. But why the hell did the author include a bunch of patterns, including ‘Paisley?’”

“Not sure,” Thea says. “But Paisley is the only one that’s capitalized. It’s probably worth a read.”

“Agreed.” I scroll back up to the top of the article.

Aces Underground has lost its long-serving matriarch. Unfortunately, Rouge Montrose has died. She was in her late forties and lived life to the fulliest. However, it was revealed after her death that she was involved in some harrowing activities involving her employees. A lot of it cannot be excused, but we still honor her legacy.