My mystery man was named Oliver Yardley, if his license was to be believed. I spent thirty minutes meticulously combing through his apartment. Slipping on a pair of gloves I found under the kitchen sink, I started with the bedroom.
It was a small room, poorly lit and uncomfortably cramped. The ambiance did nothing to hide its occupant’s questionable taste. A heavy wooden dresser dominated one wall, while an unmade bed claimed most of the floor space. What caught my eye, though, was the collection of weapons discreetly arranged on a concealed rack. There were knives of various sizes, a small handgun, and even a crossbow. This guy was no amateur; he was prepared, calculated, and judging by the arsenal, dangerously connected. It smelled like organized crime, though I couldn’t yet tell of what nature.
I moved over to the dresser, pulling open drawers to find more personal items: passports, IDs, and a stack of cash. My eyes widened as I caught sight of something else: photographs. Photos of me. But not just me. There were also images of Carson. Digging deeper, I found a file on Carson, filled with newspaper clippings and notes. Clearly, I hadn’t been careful enough in altering my appearance before visiting Tower9; someone still recognized me.
The situation escalated from unnerving to dangerous. Whoever Oliver Yardley was, he wasn’t acting alone. I couldn’t stay any longer; it was time to go.
Swiftly, I located his laptop, tucking it under my arm. It was encrypted, but I knew people who could handle that. On my way out, I snatched his car keys from a bowl near the door. If I was going to dig deeper into this mess, I’d need all the help I could get—and his car seemed like a good place to start.
I made my way outside, locking the door behind me. It felt like a small, but important, victory. I found his car—a sleek, black sports car that was far too conspicuous for my taste—but I took it anyway.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I started the engine and peeled out of the parking lot, blending in with the night. As I navigated through the streets, I reached for my cell phone and dialed Carson’s number. To my surprise, he answered almost immediately.
“Can we meet?” I asked. “Are you still in the area?”
“Meet me at the Hilton in Ashbourne,” he responded, his voice cool and detached.
Before I could say another word, he hung up. Typical Carson. He always had to have the last word.
I drove to the other side of the city and pulled up at the Hilton. Handing the keys to the valet, I quickly altered my appearance back to my original look: blonde hair, golden eyes, the real me. Then, I walked into the opulent lobby, scanning the area until my eyes locked onto Carson.
He was sitting in one of the plush chairs, looking as suave as ever. His eyes met mine, and he stood up, walking over to greet me. He leaned in to give me a kiss on the cheek.
“You look stunning,” he said. “As usual.”
“Thank you,” I replied, keenly aware that his public niceties rarely matched his private demeanor.
“Let’s eat,” he suggested, taking my arm and leading me to the hotel’s upscale restaurant.
As we settled into our seats, a sense of déjà vu washed over me. I felt like I’d been transported back to our dating days, when Carson always had to dominate every situation. I couldn’t decide whether that comforted me or put me on edge.
“So, what’s so urgent?” he finally asked, taking a sip of his wine.
“Someone’s after you,” I began, detailing what had happened with Oliver Yardley, the photographs, and the file on Carson.
His eyes narrowed, but then a smug expression took over his face. “You could have just let them kill me, but here you are, warning me.”
Obviously. If he died, there would be no way for me to get the mark off my neck. But I played along.
“I worry about you, you know.” I reached into my purse and pulled out the laptop. “There’s information about an amulet on this, but it’s encrypted. I can’t access it.”
He took the laptop from me, his fingers brushing against mine. “I know a guy. I’ll have him look into it and get back to you with the findings.”
“How nostalgic,” I said, forcing a smile. “We’re working together again, just like old times.”
“Yes,” he agreed, his eyes meeting mine. “Just like old times.”
Except nothing was like old times, and we both knew it. But for the sake of whatever twisted game we were in, we’d both play our parts to perfection.