Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 60768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
The trace takes longer than I want. I keep one ear on the stairs, listening for any sound from above. Minutes stretch. Finally, the results populate on the screen.
FBI field office prefix.
The letters hit me like a physical blow. FBI. The phone is registered to a federal agent. Not just any burner. It’s a legitimate, traceable line connected to the Bureau.
I sit back in the chair, staring at the screen until the words blur. Orchid has an FBI phone. A secret line she keeps hidden from Serafina. My mind races, connecting dots I didn’t even know were there. Is she undercover? Has she been playing Serafina this entire time? Is that why she seemed so conflicted about the hack? Why she looked almost relieved when I refused to burn Maddox?
Or is this something worse? A double game? A trap I’ve walked right into?
I wipe all evidence of the trace, close the windows, and power everything down. My hands are shaking as I slip the phone back onto the counter. Exactly where I found it. I head back upstairs. Orchid’s still asleep, breathing deep and steady. I watch her for a long moment, the rise and fall of her chest, the way her hair fans across the pillow.
Is she FBI?
The question echoes in my head as I slip back into bed beside her. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, every muscle tense. If she’s undercover, then everything changes. She’s not the enemy. She’s on our side. Or at least on some side that isn’t Serafina’s. But if she is, why has she not told me? Why keep me in the dark while Enley is still in danger?
Or maybe she’s playing both sides. Maybe she’s using me the same way Serafina is. The thought makes my stomach turn.
I can’t sleep. My mind is a mess of questions and half-formed theories. Enley. Render. Ozzy moving in. The FBI phone. Orchid’s soft breathing beside me.
I turn onto my side and watch her sleep. She looks so peaceful. So far from the woman who holds my sister’s life in her hands. I reach out and brush a strand of hair off her cheek, careful not to wake her. My fingers linger on her skin. I care about her. Deeply. More than I should in this nightmare we are living. And now this new piece of information has shattered whatever fragile understanding I thought I had.
Is she FBI?
The question loops endlessly, refusing to let me rest.
I lie there in the dark, heart pounding, mind racing, while the woman beside me sleeps like she doesn’t carry the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Whatever the answer is, it changes everything.
And I have no idea if I’m ready for what comes next.
TWENTY-SIX
ORCHID
The morning light is soft and gray when my eyes finally open. It filters through the blinds in thin, hazy strips, casting gentle shadows across the room. For a moment everything feels suspended, quiet and safe. Poe’s still asleep beside me, his breathing deep and even. He lies on his back, one arm flung loosely above his head, the other resting across his stomach. The sheet has slipped down to his hips, exposing the hard planes of his chest and the dark ink of his tattoos. His hair’s messy against the pillow, and there’s the faintest stubble along his jaw. He looks peaceful in a way that makes my chest ache.
I should stay here. I should curl into his side and let the warmth of his body chase away the doubts that are already creeping back in. But I can’t. The events of last night sit heavy on me, the wine, the laughter, the way I let myself get tipsy and loose and vulnerable. I shouldn’t have drunk so much. I should have kept my head clear. Now my mouth feels dry and my thoughts are tangled, and the only thing I can think about is the phone I left downstairs. Rookie mistake.
I slip out of bed as quietly as I can, the cool air raising goosebumps on my bare skin. I pull on the oversized t-shirt I had discarded last night and pad barefoot down the hallway. The house is silent except for the faint creak of the floorboards under my feet and the distant, muffled sounds of the neighborhood waking up.
In the kitchen I find my phone exactly where I left it on the counter. I pick it up, heart beating a little too fast, and dial Marlo’s number. It rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. The voicemail picks up, her voice cool and professional, the same message I’ve heard a dozen times before. I hang up without leaving one. I try again. Same result. No answer. No text. Nothing.
Something’s wrong.
Marlo always answers. Always. Even at odd hours, even when she’s in the middle of something dangerous, she has never let a call from me go to voicemail. The silence feels louder than any alarm. My stomach twists with a sharp, cold dread. Is she compromised? Has Serafina found out about our connection? Or is this something else entirely, something bigger that I haven’t seen coming?