Chapter 44

Chapter Forty-Four

GREY

Zane's suspicion that the real killer was snooping around just a few days ago rings in my ears.

Fear sends a shiver down my spine.

Every shadow in the hotel room jumps and leaps at me, like the darkness has come alive.

I turn on all the lights in the room.

That makes me feel a little better.

After setting up the chairs by the lock, I head straight to my laptop to plug in the flash drive and analyze the data.

Not every folder was repaired and, of the ones that were, only a few are related to Sloane's case.

Slavno was not a good man, but he was a very popular mercenary. Just a quick skim of the files reveals a lot of big names, from politicians, to police officers, to celebrities all over the city.

Many powerful people would kill to get their hands on this flash drive if they knew about it, but I'm not interested in the secrets of the rich.

All I want is justice for Sloane.

While I'm working, I hear a knock on the door.

My skin prickles and I shoot to my feet, eyes darting around for a weapon.

Zane didn't need to remind me that someone cut the brakes on my car and tried to kill me. I remember the pain I felt. The long weeks of recovery. Every time I look in the mirror and see my scar, I remember how close I came to losing my eyes, to losing my life.

I know what I'm up against.

From the outside looking in, people would call me fearless. And that… is laughable. I'm a scaredy cat who refuses to watch horror movies or read anything outside of classic literature and romance novels.

I've come this far, not because I'm some brazen warrior who isn't afraid of anything. It's that, out of all the things I'm scared of, I fear disappointing Sloane a little more.

"Ma'am," an unfamiliar voice calls.

Carefully, I approach the door and lift the peephole.

The guard outside is a man the size of a linebacker with deep ebony skin. He introduces himself and then says, "If you need anything, I'm right here."

"Thank you," I reply, sighing in relief.

The guard immediately turns his back and begins his watch.

I tiptoe back to my laptop, feeling a new peace of mind.

Relaxed now, I pour a glass of wine and dive deep into the flash drive. I'm an organizer by nature and I spend a huge chunk of time going through all the files, pictures and videos and adding the relevant ones to a folder marked ‘SLOANE'.

By the time I'm done, there are only a handful of relevant files in Sloane's folder.

"Slavno didn't think anything about handing you over, Sloane," I whisper to the silence. Just because I can't see my best friend anymore doesn't mean she's not there. "He barely kept any records."

The best piece of evidence is the video that Finn showed us and a couple snapshots of the bag of money they gave him.

Now that I'm sure there's nothing else to investigate, I turn to the bigger task of finding the real killer.

Slavno's hidden camera didn't catch the man's face. However, I can narrow it down with the clue Zane gave me tonight. There's a tattoo on the real killer's neck and it's identifiable enough that Zane could make it out through both his home security system and through this dark video.

"What is that?" I murmur, zooming in the video as much as I humanly can and peering at the black pixels that swoop across the killer's neck.

Zooming back out, I grab the complimentary notepad that came with the room and draw the looping pattern that's evident on his skin. Next, I reverse the video in one-second doses, trawling through every movement the real killer makes. Every time he turns his head, reaches his arm out, or turns, his shirt shifts a little, revealing more of the tattoo.

I watch it from every perspective, shaping out as much of the marking as I can.

When I'm satisfied that I have the most accurate representation that I can possibly pull from the pixelated video, I snap a picture and start searching for hits online.

There are none.

Which could be due to my awful drawing skills or to the fact that I'm barking up the wrong tree.

Absently, I reach for my glass and realize I'm out of wine.

I pour myself another and return to my sketch. Standing and looking down from this vantage point, the swooping motion of the drawing kind of looks like the tail of a dragon.

With renewed energy, I type the word ‘dragon tattoo' into the search bar and scroll through the images. But none of them look like the tattoo.

I'm about to give up and go searching for the extra container of pasta that I charmed the lunch ladies into sneaking out to me, when an image catches my eye.

It's not a dragon, but a snake.

I click on it and lift my drawing up to the computer. I never caught sight of the head of the snake, but my sketch is the perfect replica of the tail end. Typing furiously, I dive deeper into the white snake.

"A sacred symbol in Japanese culture," I read out loud. "Japanese?" So frantically, I nearly spill all my wine, I tap the track pad and rewind the video to the part where the real killer speaks.

"Take the girl."

My eyes spring open.

A Japanese drawing.

A Japanese accent.

My heart thumps against my chest. "Oh, Sloane. What on earth happened to you that night?"