Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
He shakes his head. “You can trust me. Maddox and I have been friends for years. Our fathers were best friends, and we grew up together. If there’s one person that Maddox trusts implicitly, it’s me. And you’ve worked with me for a while now. You know I care about the people at this hospital as if they were my own family.”
I bite my lip.
“Maddox wouldn’t have asked me to protect you over nothing,” he continues.
I wring my hands together. “Fine. It’s just… Maddox and I found something out about the woman who runs the club. And we’re not sure if she knows about what we found out. So we’re a little anxious about…about it affecting Maddox’s membership.”
He raises an eyebrow. “The woman who runs the club… You mean the one who dresses up like a medieval queen and flirts with all the security guards?”
“That’s the one. Rouge Montrose.”
The color drains from Dr. O’Rourke’s face. “Sorry, that’s Rouge Montrose? The woman in that getup?”
“Yes. Do you know her?”
Dr. O’Rourke scratches at the back of his neck. “I’ve never seen her outside the club. I assume she wears normal attire when she’s out and about, and I don’t think Maddox has ever mentioned her name.”
“Then why did you have such an intense reaction to her name? Do you know her from somewhere else?”
Dr. O’Rourke nods. “Yes, I do. Rouge Montrose—or at least someone who goes by that name—sits on the board of this very hospital.”
11
MADDOX
I collapse onto my couch the second I get home.
I could take a nap. I maybe got four hours of sleep last night. I could definitely use some extra shuteye.
But right now, I’m not tired.
Not true. I’m exhausted. But I’m not sleepy.
I’m wired. Like I just drank ten cups of coffee.
Just when I think I’m feeling normal again, the cold, dead eyes of May staring blankly at me from the hatbox pop back into my mind.
I don’t know how long Bill will take to get us some answers.
Could take a day. Could take weeks. He’s going to have to do it under the table, after all. We can’t risk Rouge finding out.
Either way, it’s out of my hands for now.
I just have to pray that a band of Rouge’s Kings doesn’t show up and gun me down in the meantime.
No wonder I’m so restless.
I take out my phone. Open Instagram.
I don’t have a personal account, but I have one for the haberdashery. I use it to follow all my friends’ accounts. I scroll down, browsing the images the algorithm has chosen to display for me this evening. Then I switch to Facebook. To Twitter. Then back to Insta.
I put my phone down. I’m doing exactly what these social media companies want me to do. Get caught in a loop, endlessly devouring content in little bursts of dopamine, in hopes that I’ll click on an ad and generate some revenue.
Alissa wants to meet up on Thursday. It’s Monday afternoon. That’s three whole days before I’ll see her again.
Of course, I can always have her over at night, provided the hospital isn’t making her work the graveyard shift.
I’ve gone and gotten myself hooked on Alissa.
I’m addicted to her. I crave nothing but her. All I’ll be able to think about over the next few days is when I’ll get my next fix.
I had three nights in a row with her. Four nights, if you count that chance meeting when she walked into my shop on a whim.
God, how many lifetimes ago was that?
She walked into my shop last Thursday, and by Sunday we were unearthing the body parts of the woman who served us on Friday and Saturday.
Fuck.
The whole thing should make my stomach twist, but I’ve become numb.
Defense mechanism, I guess.
I’ll be unpacking what we found last night for the next several years once it finally settles into my psyche.
For now, I guess I’ll enjoy the nothingness.
I close my eyes. Think back on that first date. Back when Aces was just a club, not the den of carnage it turned out to be.
Alissa and I discussed our favorite music.
I told her how much I enjoyed the rockers of the sixties and seventies, and she told me all about her favorite composer.
What was his name?
Shosta… Shosta… Shosta-something.
I grab my phone again and search it. It autofills in the rest of the composer’s name. Dmitri Shostakovich. A Soviet-era Russian composer.
And… That’s right! The Chicago Symphony Orchestra is performing one of his symphonies this week. I pull up their website and go to the calendar.
It’s Thursday night. Alissa will be free. I sure as hell can clear my schedule.
Of course, with my luck, that’ll be the day Bill calls with results for May.
But fuck it. Worst case we have to wait a few hours.
Before I can overthink it, I’ve purchased two tickets. About halfway down the main floor. It’s a couple hundred bucks. Not exactly cheap, but a night out with Alissa is worth it.