“I like how I didn’t even have to ask.” I hold the key up to the bright sunlight. It’s rust-covered and massive, like the key to the gates of the Underworld itself—if such a place existed. And just like Catalina said, a crow adorns the bow.
“Fucking Christ, Tess.” She grabs my arm and yanks it down. Her eyes are wide with panic as she scans the hospital entrance and lot. “Put that thing away.”
“Afraid an Antiques Roadshow superfan might mug us?”
“Not all of us want to get the boot a year into our careers,” she says through clenched teeth.
“Damn, shots fired.”
Her expression softens, and she says, “Sorry, that was harsh.”
“It’s all good.” I tap her shoulder with the key. “Also, it was four years.”
A vein in her neck pops out as she tenses up. I know getting that wrong is driving her crazy.
Consider us even, then. Not that I was actually offended. Shit happens outside your control. Reynolds canned me so I could go work for Dom. You just gotta roll with it and move on.
Catalina exhales loudly and shakes her arms out to brush off the horror of being wrong for the first time this month.
“It’s just that, you know, not all of us can be like you, Tess,” she says, looking at me like she’s relaying a diagnosis to a patient. “You’re a fucking badass. Just straight ahead, plowing through brick walls in that truck of yours like they’re made of cardboard and balsa wood.”
I wince at the thought. “I don’t think that’d be good for the truck’s fender.”
“It’s a metaphor, for those of us who got Cs in English.”
“Think I read about those once on Wikipedia.” I toss the strange key into the air and catch it. “I’ll see what I can learn about this thing.”
“The instant you know, you call me,” Catalina says. “So I can cure this son of a bitch.”
Ella growls and flicks her ears.
“Don’t worry, girl,” I say. “She was saying that affectionately.”
“Damn right. Toby makes a mean pot roast.” She gives me a warm hug and whispers in my ear, “But please be careful, Tess.”
I squeeze her tightly and say, “When am I not?”
Sixteen
I’m not sure what ailment has befallen Toby, but it sounds dire—especially if it’s a curse. Which means finding out what his key unlocks is yet another urgent matter piling up on my already overflowing plate.
After a busy morning, the rest of today seems like a work from home type of affair where I’ll plow through the boxes of files from Hex’s office and the Wolfhearts. That, and any answers regarding the security deposit box this key opens may lie in Toby’s apartment.
Two birds, one stone.
Sweat trickles down my back from the summer heat as I haul myself up the stairwell to the third floor. Toby’s door still sags open from when I kicked the lock in this morning. With the key in hand, Ella and I head inside and begin the search for the mysterious box it opens.
I’ve been in here hundreds of times before. He’s never mentioned a box to me, though, and I’ve never noticed one. But as a former cop, I know all too well that it’s easy to miss details lurking in plain sight. So maybe a pair of eyes that finally knows what it’s looking for will reveal something that’s been hidden out in the open all along.
But after an hour of rifling through drawers and tapping on walls for hidden compartments, we strike out. Ella has never heard him mention anything about a security deposit box, either, and there aren’t any clues lying around to where it might be located—whether that’s in the apartment or otherwise.
We can’t even confirm if there’s a box at all. For all I know, this key leads to a sewer lair hidden beneath Ragnarok’s streets.
Before we leave, I sweep up the lamp that Silas broke, bag up the trash, mop up the droplets of blood, and call a locksmith to fix the front door.
Then I head back to my own apartment to start wading through the files.
Invoices, credit card statements, telephone records, emails, and social media conversations flow past my fingertips. I pore over them all, placing each sheet in a pile to my right as I finish.
About two hours in, the numbers and the text messages about makeup lines and apps start to blur together.
Then something catches my eye.
It’s a direct message conversation between Emmy and her PR rep, Rosie Santellini. It’s time stamped only a few weeks before Emmy’s disappearance.
I’ve slogged through pages of these DMs already, most of them filled with tons of banal marketing-ese about “staying on brand” and “knowing the demographics” and the like. The cops could access Emmy’s social media accounts since she was still logged in on her home computer—which wasn’t password protected. An odd move, given that Emmy Davis made thirty million plus a year from her brands as an influencer.
Her Instagram account alone might be worth nine figures. Seems you’d want to keep that golden goose under ironclad lock and key. Instead, a random Tinder date looking for a little extra clout—or just to troll—could’ve posted his bare ass right to her 113 million followers after slipping out of her bed.
But this might explain why security was so lax. After all, if you’re leaving a bread crumb trail to yourself, it does you little good if no one can actually find it.
EMMY: thinking about Project Ghost
ROSIE: we’ve talked about this already, not a good idea
EMMY: think about the brand =)
ROSIE: i am thinking about the brand
EMMY: people would love it
ROSIE: i don’t think so
EMMY: wanna bet :P
ROSIE: no, i just want you not to do it
EMMY: the chief says he’ll help
That’s where the exchange ends. Unremarkable, really—and maybe I’m grasping at straws, having gone delirious from eating a steady diet of nothing-burgers for the past couple hours—but a theory begins to take shape.
Insane, sure.
But it’s weird that, in a sea of messages where every participant seems allergic to any form of capitalization, “Project Ghost” receives special treatment. And we all know what going ghost means: disappearing without a trace.
Usually applied to dating, sure. But if your only job was to live in what amounts to a daily reality show, then why not produce the best storyline of all time?
Business mogul’s golden daughter vanishes into thin air suddenly.
No clues. No trail.
Was she lost? Murdered? In hiding?
Years later—found in the middle of a cornfield after being abducted by aliens. Or found in the middle of the Pacific after being shipwrecked on a remote island. I don’t know who’s writing this script. But indeed, there’s one thing that’s damn certain when it comes to the brand: everyone loves a good comeback story.
And Emmy’s reappearance would be the stuff of legend.
Sure, there are a couple holes in this rough theory I’m spinning: killing her best friend for likes would give even the most dedicated psychopath cold sweats. And there is the minor issue of coordinating the return itself. After all, merely announcing to the world that you bamboozled them is a good way to get a bunch of pitchforks rammed straight up your ass and build yourself a permanent doghouse.
And legally, that definitely wouldn’t fly, given the massive resources that have been dedicated to finding her.
Kidnappers, then? A plane crash, where she was stranded in the Swiss Alps?
Project Ghost, in and of itself, would be the most tenuous of threads to latch on to. But coupled with the timing a few weeks before she vanished, and the sign off—“the chief says he’ll help”—it has me thinking about what Reynolds said earlier at the county jail.
Chief Bobby Summers gave the order to stonewall Ragnarok PD’s investigation into Delia’s murder.
Then he disappeared shortly thereafter.
Could be the same chief Emmy is referring to here.
I bring up Emmy’s Instagram, which is still live, and start scrolling through. The final post is two years ago, the day of her disappearance. It’s out at the town limits. The comments section has become something akin to a shrine.
Nothing else pops out to me on her feed. Not even a whiff of an allusion to Project Ghost.
So I search for Rosie’s details online, expecting her to be located in LA or New York, figuring I’ll give her a call to ask her a few questions. Fortuitously enough, though, her shop is right downtown—within walking distance of this very apartment.
That means my little work from home interlude is over.
I glance over at Ella. She’s curled up on the faded couch, cutting the z’s, so I leave her be as I head out the door.
It’s time to pay Emmy’s PR rep a visit to find out what Project Ghost is all about.
Seventeen
It’s funny how you can live in a place for most of your life, but entire buildings still seem like they never existed before the current moment. That’s the feeling washing over me as I stare at the brownstone where Santellini & Associates is located. In my defense, it looks like a regular house, with only a tiny placard to suggest that it’s a place of business.
Also, the name sounds like a law office. And I’ve always made it a rule to avoid lawyers whenever possible—even when I was on the force and they were an occupational hazard.
I mash my thumb against the glowing amber buzzer, and a prim feminine voice greets me with, “Santellini & Associates. Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m here on behalf of Hex Davis,” I reply. “To discuss Project Ghost.”
“Mister—Mister Davis sent you?” The prim voice chokes, sounding like she suddenly swallowed an eel.
“You didn’t mark the appointment on Rosie’s calendar? He called ahead.”
Papers shuffle in the background, and something crashes to the floor. “Shit!”
“You know, maybe you should just buzz me in.”
“I have to check with Ms. Santellini—”
“I think you should probably do that after buzzing me in. It’s kind of hot out here. And the heat makes me a bit grouchy. Which might affect what I tell Hex.”
The front door swings open.
She bought my bluff.
A welcome blast of frigid air sweeps over my skin as I enter the foyer. To the left, what was originally two rooms—a living room and a dining room, presumably—has seen the wall between them knocked down to form one long reception area.
The college-aged receptionist has a receiver pressed up to her ear. I hear, “I can’t stall. I let her in already.” She covers her mouth as I approach to mask the conversation.
I lean my elbows on a countertop adorned by vases of fresh cut flowers. One of them lies on the carpet in pieces. Guess I know what that crash was. The subtle aroma of honeysuckle permeates the cool air.
Finally, the girl gets off the phone. She brushes her short, bleached-blond hair back and says, “Ms. Santellini is checking with Mr. Davis and will meet with you shortly.”
“I see.” Considering that the real Hex Davis is gone—and never to return, judging from what Javy’s relayed about Marius’s abilities—that’s not gonna go in my favor.
“It’ll only be a minute.” The girl gestures toward one of the nearby leather chairs in that way one does to someone they think is beneath them. “You’re free to wait.”
“Actually, I’m on the clock.” Without further discussion, I march toward the back, where an office sits behind a frosted glass door. A woman’s outline is visible behind the closed door.
“Excuse me!” The receptionist hurries out from behind her desk, heels tapping softly against the rug as she tries to chase me down. “You can’t go back there!”
“Watch me.” I rap my knuckles against the thick glass.
Then I hear another familiar sound—that of a shredder grinding away.
I fling the door open and it smashes against an aluminum trashcan in the corner. A crack spiderwebs through the frosted glass.
“What the hell is—” Rosie Santellini, a raven-haired woman of about forty, pops up from her antique oak desk. Judging from the heft and the brass hardware flourishes, the thing had to have cost a fortune just in moving costs alone.
It’s a toss-up whether her furniture or the jewelry in her ears cost more. If those are real diamonds, we’re talking five-figures easy.
The receptionist says, “I tried to stop her, Ms. Santellini.”
“Clearly not hard enough,” Rosie replies, wearing an unamused frown.
“I’m sorry, should I—”
“Go away.” Rosie makes a shooing gesture with her hand. The receptionist scurries back to the front desk, tail between her legs.
I step out of the entranceway, allowing the door to close behind me with a gentle whoosh. “Good help is hard to find these days.”
“Excuse me.” Rosie’s shaking hands reach for a thick stack of papers. “You were told to wait.”
“How about we step away from the shredder?”
She feeds another batch through in defiance. “I’ll call the cops,” she says. “Right now.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say. “Considering all the evidence you’re destroying.”
Rosie reaches into a drawer and returns brandishing a tiny pistol. It’s gold. Because of course it is.
Despite its presence, my heartbeat is calm.
I’ve stared killers in the eye. You can never be sure, of course, but even sixty seconds into knowing her, Rosie doesn’t strike me as able to pull the trigger.
That being said, it could happen by mistake. Because she has her finger right on it. Someone hasn’t taught her about Gun Safety 101.
I raise my hands up slowly and say, “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
“It’s done,” she says. “I have nothing to tell you.”
“Is that so?”
“Hex bled Emmy dry for years. Using her money to fund one failed venture after another.” She jabs the pistol toward me. “He doesn’t get to act like he gives a shit.”
This is interesting news. I obviously knew Hex was broke since he announced it back in the courtyard. But I’d still bought his sob story about spending his last dime on his daughter’s safe recovery. If Rosie’s story is to be believed, though, then his current financial woes actually stemmed from her disappearance—and the simultaneous vanishing act of all that cash flow.
“I don’t work for Hex,” I say. “I work for the Wolfhearts.”
Guess I could’ve led with that. But it looked to me like Rosie was Emmy’s PR rep, not Delia’s, which made the Hex connection seem like a better play to get quick entry.
It’s easy to second-guess your decision making when you’re staring down the barrel of a tiny golden gun held by a woman who clearly has no idea how to use it.
“So you’re saying that you lied your way in here before, but now you’re telling the truth?”
I bob my head from side to side, weighing her assessment of my actions to date. “Well, when you put it like that, it doesn’t sound very convincing.”
“It sounds exactly like something some scumbag hired by Hex Davis would say.”
“I’ll admit to lying to get in here.” I start lowering my hands. “How about we put the gun down?”
“Why don’t you leave?”
Touché. But not happening before I learn what she’s hiding. Her having a midday shred party confirms my suspicions: Rosie Santellini knows something about what happened to Emmy. Whether it’s regarding Project Ghost or another matter entirely remains to be seen.
I say, “Then at least take your finger off the trigger.”
“I’m the one with the gun. So I make the rules.”
“But it’d be a shame to ruin these freshly painted walls with my brains. Very difficult to wash out. And the police paperwork is a bitch. As a former cop, I know.”
The mention of being an ex-cop drives a litt
le fear into her. The gun wavers. With some reluctance, Rosie slowly slides her finger off the trigger. The gun is so small that her fingertip almost touches the barrel.
“Now I think it’s time for you to leave.”
“Not quite.” Instead, I take a seat in one of the posh leather client chairs in front of her hulking desk. “Because I have some questions.”
She stares at me like I’ve grown horns. “Are you insane or stupid?”
“Probably both,” I say. “But I’m the one asking the questions. Project Ghost. What was it?”
Her posture stiffens and she swallows hard, like she’s trying to down a piece of unchewed meat. “Like I said—”
“Right, but you’re a terrible liar. Really expected more from a PR rep.” It’s not necessarily true, but it’s a gambit to rattle her.
She huffs and says, “I don’t have to take this.”
“And yet, here we are.” I cross my legs and glance at the walls. Most of the pictures are with Emmy. “It doesn’t seem like you have a whole lot of other clients.”
“Business is fine.”
“It’s a bit strange. Emmy could’ve hired a big agency from LA. New York. A giant firm with a hundred publicists. And yet she stuck with you.”
“Some people are loyal and appreciate quality work.” Rosie finally sits down at her desk and props her elbow up on a stack of papers to keep the gun pointed at me.
“Arm getting a little tired?”
“If it does, I’ll just shoot you.”
I smirk. “Fair enough. Or you could just tell me about Project Ghost.”
“There is no Project Ghost.”
“You know what I think?”
“I don’t care what you think.” Rosie massages her gun-holding arm with her free hand.
True to what Catalina said about me earlier, I plow ahead anyway. “I think the reason Emmy stuck with you is because you helped her with bullshit that a legit agency wouldn’t touch. Stuff like Project Ghost.”
She visibly bristles at the word legit. “It’s a good story. Got any proof?”
I point toward the front pocket of my jeans. “May I?” She doesn’t understand what I’m referring to, so I add, “I’m going to pull out a piece of paper. Don’t ruin the walls, okay?”
Smoke Show (Tess Skye Book 2) Page 8