74 Setting a trap

**Date = 5 July**
*One more day passed.*
**Place = San Francisco (Inferno)**

**POV - Enrique**

After yesterday’s incident, I’m reluctantly thinking of moving myself and Aria to Black Pit as soon as Leyla gets discharged. I figure their safety is more important than my stupid dislike of the place — even if every cell in my body rebels at the idea.
I don’t think I will ever feel comfortable there. Not in this lifetime.
Still, it doesn’t look the same anymore. Nothing does. Jackson changed everything — the buildings, the gardens, the atmosphere itself. Even the mountain and the ocean seem to be more lustrous, like the land was waiting for someone to scrub off the grime and let it breathe again.
Now, the verdant green pastures are alive with livestock. Cattle graze under open skies. Sheep move in flocks like soft clouds across the hills. Ducks and geese glide across the ponds. And flowers — actual, vivid, defiant flowers — bloom everywhere in the gardens.
And there are orchards. Fruits. Lots and lots of fruits. Stretching so far that it seems to go on forever. And fields with crops.
It’s all new. It’s hopeful. Uplifting. It doesn’t feel like a place where a monster once lived.
But there are still horses. Plenty of them. Just not the sleek Thoroughbreds Alexander worshiped. Different breeds.
Still horses, though.
Jackson loves horses. I don’t. And for good reason.
They’re the only thing Alexander ever gave a damn about. He bred racehorses like they were royalty. Cared for them like fucking fragile saints.
But treated his family like trash.
He nearly killed my twin once for shooting a gun in the broodmare paddock. Why Jackson did that, no one knows. We just heard the shot, found him battered and bleeding, holding the gun and a crying Mel. I’m sure my sister was the reason my twin got hurt …
But Alexander didn’t even care if Jackson was okay. Didn’t care that he got shot, or was nearly killed by the panicking herd. Hell, he barely cared that Mel was crying. He only cared that the horses got spooked.
They got pampered, groomed, and calmed with sugar cubes. Ilkay took Mel home. Jackson got locked up for two days, without food or water. Just dark silence and pain.
At least the stables also got a redo. It’s no longer the stale, damp, concrete nightmare from before. The 50 shades of stark memories have been stripped away. Replaced with warm sandstone and fresh white walls, accented with sleek ebony wood like the rest of the buildings. The light and dark form a striking contrast — like the present and the past of the place. As if trying to be something else now. Something better. Something clean.
Take the staircase in the stables, for instance … it’s still there, sanded down, it gleams under new varnish like it never held secrets.
But I know better.
I managed to go inside. Made it as far as the trapdoor. Stared at the shiny new lock. Same place. Same terror, dressed up in fresh paint. Just the thought of what it leads to made me gag. I turned and bolted. Didn’t make it far before I collapsed onto the lawn and vomited, emptying my stomach into a bed of peonies. Beautiful flowers that now adorn the front of the stables.
Pink, perfect, bobbing gently in the breeze.
Pretty flowers. Pretty lies. Trying to dress up what can never be clean.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
“So, where’s Jackson?” I ask his bestie, who’s currently brooding with an air of melancholy around him. His aura is obviously feeling pensively sad with no obvious cause.
“Grieving, I guess,” Axel grunts, eyes flicking mysteriously sideways toward Miguel, who’s posted beside him like a budget bodyguard. Miguel gives a tiny shrug — which, coming from him, is basically a sonnet. My brother’s one minion is as annoying as the other. And these days they seem to come in pairs. Like bad news and hangovers.
I sigh and stare out through the oversized glass windows at the level below, usually the hub of the place, now dead quiet like an omen. You’d think I’d be used to this emotionally constipated crowd by now.
But I’m not.
The taste in my mouth turns sour. Where the hell is Jackson? And what is he thinking up now?
Axel breaks the tension with his usual cheeriness. “Oh, cheer up, Grumpy, he’s watching River since Marco is here.”
I roll my eyes and hope that if I’m ever reincarnated, I’ll be an only child with better friends.
“So, you guys know what to say, right?” he says then.
His tone is full-on serious dad mode. I consider telling him that we’re not absolute morons — but he looks like he’s one stray thought away from a breakdown. And honestly, being Jackson’s confidant must be like babysitting a loaded grenade. Who knows what dark secrets he has to keep, poor thing.
But I don’t like this setup he’s gotten us into. Selling lies. Not just to the cops, but also to the psychos tormenting us. It’s not a small feature. And it’s against the law.
Especially if lying isn’t exactly part of your anatomy. If lies have been beaten out of you like a slave on a ship.
But we’ve all been forced to evolve.
And these days … although we haven’t actually lied as such, we did not tell the truth either. About Amanda. About the baby. The secrets we’re keeping from each other.
At least it seems we will all do anything to keep our loved ones safe — lie, act, break the law … blow things up. Kill?
Jackson came up with a brilliant plan to expose the rat — identify it, don’t spook it, and milk it for all it’s worth. Basically, catch the rodent, don’t scream, and use it to bring down the whole sewer.
“Yes, we know our lines,” I answer, channeling my most no-nonsense tone. “You’re sure one of them is the rat?”
Miguel nods like a robot whose only emotion is smugness. “We’ve dug a little into our favorite little police station. David is the only one who knew about the baby in the jar, and the letters on the crates, before the warehouse blew up … and he shared that information with only Collin and Matthew … it leaked out almost immediately.”
“It could’ve been the killers who leaked it,” I argue, my brain is unusually clear today. Aria helped with that. Last night. Intensely. Through very effective therapy. Sucked out all the fog, so to speak.
“Sure,” Miguel says, “except the email to the press came from Detective Matthews’ station computer.”
“You could’ve led with that,” I snap, all posh and judgy. Miguel smirks like he just got praised by Satan.
Fantastic. He’s as annoying as my twin.
“So he’s the rat?” I ask.
Miguel shrugs like a cryptic toddler. “We’ll know soon enough.”
Then my brain, now functioning on all cylinders thanks to Aria’s fog-cleansing, realizes something else. “How do you know it came from his computer?”
“Had it hacked,” Miguel says with all the emotion of someone ordering fries. Excellent. Add another felony to the increasingly impressive collection my brother’s racking up. At this point, his rap sheet is probably being turned into a novel.
Miguel reaches into his jacket and pulls out a sealed plastic bag containing a shiny blue toothbrush. It looks like something stolen from a spa gift basket. He drops it on the counter like it’s a winning poker chip. “For the DNA test,” he says.
Axel squints at the toothbrush like it’s trying to scam him. “It doesn’t look used enough.”
Maybe Lee wasn’t a frequent brusher. Or maybe Lee just had really obedient teeth. Still, I remember those perfect pearly whites — all flawless and Disney-princess-like — so I’m guessing the brush was recently replaced.
Miguel shrugs like it’s Axel’s problem now. “Best we could do.”
I inhale deeply. Exhale slowly. Count to three. What the actual hell?
“So the corpse is really Lee?” I ask. But something still doesn’t sit right. They’re hiding something. I can smell secrets like mold in a closet. But why? I’m not the enemy.
Then again, Alexander used to say — the more people know a secret, the less secret it becomes.
A rare gem of wisdom in the cesspool that was his fucked-up personality. That’s why I never told anyone about the contract. And I’m guessing Jackson’s playing it the same way. Either that or he has serious trust issues. Which I suppose he has.
“The DNA will match,” Axel says, sounding like he’s bracing for a punch.
Miguel chimes in with another helpful nugget. “Jackson said you’d better sell it.”
And there it is — the smirk again. I don’t think I like him much.
Axel rolls his eyes so hard they nearly exit the building. He mutters something dark and probably unprintable.
“Too late now, pal. You chose to be his bestie,” I shoot back, all teasing. Axel glares at me like I just peed on his car.
Which, in fairness, I have considered.
“So, really, is Lee dead or not?” I try to sound forceful. Axel looks at Miguel, who shrugs.
Axel leans forward. “For all official purposes, Lee is dead, burnt to a crisp. However, technically, Lee just went to a better place,” he says softly. “Literally.”
“Yeah, probably sunbathing and sipping cocktails with the devil,” Miguel charms, still with that annoying smirk.
“Or fucking him,” Axel grunts with the same smile. My gut tells me Lee is still breathing. But who does the body belong to then? What did Jackson do? How far did he go this time?
“Who —”
“Enrique,” one of my bouncers calls from the staircase, “The police are here.”
Of course they are.
Miguel, the enthusiastic intern in Jackson’s world of deception, glides off to greet the officers at the top of the stairs like a waiter at a funeral-themed steakhouse. He escorts them toward the bar, where Axel and I are seated, pretending to sip our drinks and grieve like respectable citizens instead of professional schemers.
Time to get into character. I was told to act devastated by the death of a friend.
Luckily, I have experience looking emotionally shattered when I’m not. It comes from childhood*.*
I narrow my eyes at Detective Matthew, scanning him like he’s a human-sized malware infection. He doesn’t look like a rat — but then again, neither did Uncle John’s previous accountant, and he ran off with six million and a new identity in Panama.
“Welcome, Detectives,” Axel says, all stiff-necked and formal, like he’s hosting a murder mystery party he doesn’t want to attend. I give the officers a faint nod — just enough to say I’m here, I’m grieving, please don’t ask questions.
Truth is, I’m not entirely sure what I’m feeling yet. If the corpse is Lee (which I now doubt) … well, then yeah. Actual grief might hit me like a truck later. For now, I’m running on denial and muscle memory.
“Good day,” says Detective David, shaking our hands like we didn’t spend the last two weeks drowning in blood, lies, and cover-ups. Matthew offers his hand, too. I take it, holding it for just long enough to feel whether betrayal has a pulse. It does.
“Sorry for your loss,” Matthew says, with the kind of sincerity you only hear from funeral home employees and people who’ve never met the deceased.
Shoestring, the third detective — and quite possibly the spiritual reincarnation of a boot — also offers his condolences. I murmur a “Thanks” with all the emotional range of a mannequin.
Miguel, ever efficient, picks up the infamous blue brush from the table like he’s unveiling a priceless artifact. “Here’s Lee’s toothbrush,” he says.
Lie 1 — it must be a fake.
Shoestring accepts it reverently, seals it into yet another plastic bag like it’s radioactive, slaps a label on it, and tucks it into a case. Probably next to a hair sample from Elvis and a splinter of Bigfoot’s toenail.
“We’re pretty confident the body is Lee Moore,” he says, voice all soft and sympathetic, “but it would bring closure to know for sure.”
Closure. Closure doesn’t bring anyone back, but it sure helps tie red tape into pretty little bows.
“Great …” Axel says, sounding like he’s about to bring up a deeply personal trauma. “Lee’s family and friends need that.”
“So where can we set up?” Matthew asks.
Miguel takes over. “We’ll split you up to save time,” he says smoothly. “We’ve prepped private rooms where you can interview everyone on-site yesterday.”
Lie 2 — not everyone.
“I understand,” David says, nodding. “We’ll try to be as prompt as possible so we can get out of your hair.”
Good luck. We are basically the mafia with a marketing department, thanks to my twin.
Axel nods at me. Meaning the start of our deception. “Detective Collin, you’ll go with Enrique. Detective Matthew, you can follow Miguel.” Like good little tour guides, we escort them up to the second floor of the restaurant area — all polished wood, discreet lighting, and just enough soundproofing to muffle moral ambiguity.
Each detective is placed in a separate booth, far enough apart to ensure no whisper of contradiction.
All the guards who were at the scene yesterday are sitting quietly downstairs, patiently waiting for their turn.
“If you’re ready, I’ll send in the first guard,” I offer, all sweet and helpful. Shoestring nods and starts arranging his very serious detective kit — notebook, pen, recorder, all lined up like he’s about to interview the ghost of Watergate.
I summon our first witness: Marco. Who was absolutely not at the scene. He’s taking the place of River. And now wears a full arm cast like a badge of bravery. Courtesy of Deimos, our in-house field medic.
Marco’s role? The injured occupant in the car … the one who broke his arm. It’s basically community theater, but for crime.
Jackson’s idea, of course.
My brilliant brother plays chess while the rest of us are still figuring out how the pieces move.
Outside the booth, Marco leans in and says, “Everything’s set to collect your sister at **Half Moon Bay Airport** tomorrow at two. Private flight. We’ll take every precaution.”
“You better,” I say, grim and foreboding. “We can’t afford to lose anyone else.” He nods and steps inside.
I close the booth door with the kind of smile that makes people double-check their life insurance policies.
Miguel meets me at the top of the stairs, smugness glowing off him like he moisturizes in duplicity. “My first witness hit the lines perfectly.” He winks. His guy spat the exact same lie, except that Mel will land at the **Schulz–Sonoma County Airport** instead.
Lie 3 — the fake airport landing.
In reality, Mel isn’t landing anywhere remotely near California. She’s tucked away in one of Jackson’s fortified properties, this time in the Scottish Highlands — because nothing says hard to find like miles of fog, sheep, historical castles, and a few lochs. And the fact that it’s sparsely populated helps too.
Damion, Logan, Kiara, and even Alejandro are with her. It’s practically a reunion. A weird, traumatized one.
Back at the bar, the Captain waits like an overcooked omelet — stiff, crusty, and about to fall apart. Axel is on the phone with his back to him, speaking just loud enough for our test subject to hear.
“So you’re landing tomorrow at two? At **Palo Alto Airport**?” Pause. Then, with dramatic patience — “Yes, we’ll send a team to pick you up.”
He turns around with a casual smile. “Sorry about that. Melaena insists on coming home.”
The Captain nods, but his eyes flicker. Bingo. That was the test. One little sister, three locations. Whatever airport some bad guys show up at — that’s our rat.
Plain and simple.
Well, simple-ish*.* There’s still a chance we’ve wildly miscalculated, and the rat is smarter than we thought. Or invisible. Or an algorithm. But for now, it’s a solid plan.
If we survive the fallout, Jackson might even lighten up a little.
But first — lie, smile, lie some more. And keep your eyes on the damn cheese.
“Do you have any new information?” I ask the Captain, hoping for a yes, but expecting another incompetent no*.*
“You would not believe what happened yesterday,” David says with a grin that belongs on someone who just found twenty bucks, not a homicide cop.
“You mean besides the boat that went BOOM?” I deadpan.
His smile falters. “Yeah … beside that. This happened around midnight.”
Whatever happened at midnight, I know I’m in the clear. I was very, very busy. And very, very deep. Buried in Aria’s vagina. Saw more stars than the NASA database.
“My phone rang,” he continues. “Graham’s younger sister wants to report him missing.”
I blink. “What?”
David turns to me. Then to Axel. And then back to me again, like I’m hiding Graham in my sock drawer. Why is it always me? Do I just have that guilty-but-sexy face? Does he think I’m some criminal mastermind posing as a hotshot actor with killer cheekbones?
… okay, fair enough. I do own some sexy cheeks on a very hot, handsome face.
“Said he left her a weird message and then vanished. She hasn’t heard from him in a month. She’s worried.”
“I didn’t even know Graham had a sister,” I admit. “Didn’t know he had a family. Honestly, never pictured him as the sentimental older brother type.”
“Poor girl was crying so much, her friend did all the talking,” David continues.
“Great,” Axel mutters, already annoyed at this sudden plot twist.
“He must be hiding so hard, he forgot to send a postcard,” I say. “Typical.”
“The sister is Megan. But the friend … the girl’s got some weird-ass name I can’t pronounce …” David’s tone is casual but clipped, “Definitely spelled it wrong … Caike, Suki, Si-khee … hell if I know.”
The air stills.
Axel huffs something about butterflies. I glare at him.
He stiffens like someone hit pause on his bloodstream. His jaw tightens, and a strange, sick paleness creeps up his neck. He grabs his chest like he’s been hit by a bullet through the heart, and he looks as if he sees a ghost behind the bar.
I know that look. It’s when a ghost of a past you thought was buried gets dredged up from the mud … and now it’s looking you in the eye.
Axel blinks a few times and slowly gets his color back.
“Have you told her about her brother being a suspect in some serious felonies?” I ask.
“No. But she said she’ll come back to the states asap.” He levels us with that look again. The disappointed-dad expression. “You guys do realize who his father is, right?”
I shake my head, blank as a jury during closing arguments. Axel is still a breathing statue.
“His dad is Hamilton Scott. The Fire Chief.”
“Of course,” Axel mumbles like he just found out his favorite Marvel character died. “My boss’s boss’s boss’s boss …” Doubt he’s got enough bosses in there.
Wonderful. We’re now also entangled with a man who controls every hose in the county.
Matthew and Collin rejoin us — just as Miguel appears behind them like an unwanted haunting. He nods with a smuck smile. Everything went as planned.
The detectives breezed through the witness interviews like they were speed dating. They went round for round — as if they hadn’t been in the middle of this mess from day one.
Still, the guard’s story stayed airtight — they followed orders. Drove to the location. And then the boat became confetti. End of story.
They don’t know who shot the victims. The small one might be Lee, since Lee has been gone for a week.
No one blinked. No one cracked. Even our fake injured witness didn’t flinch under pressure. If lying were a sport, they’d be going to the damn Olympics.
Although technically, except for Marco, they did not lie.
Miguel folds his arms and stares them down with eyes that could freeze lava. Then, slowly, deliberately, he says: “I’m telling you now — you better find whoever killed Jackson’s roommate … and make them pay.”
The words are staged. The fury? Not entirely.
Because even if this whole thing is a performance, Miguel is the kind of guy who means it anyway.
“Or he will,” he adds with just enough venom to make both detectives suddenly remember their pension plans.
David nods, attempting to match the tone but coming up short. “I promise you, we won’t rest until we do. But you have to understand — we need something concrete to take this to court. Evidence. Suspects. You know, stuff that doesn’t get blown up every time we get close.”
Yeah, well … I don’t think Jackson is interested in taking these people to court.
They are going after his loved ones. Went after Lee. So — the trial’s already over. The sentence has been decided. All that’s left is the execution.
And knowing my brother?
It won’t be poetic.
It’ll be biblical.