Evan’s fingers curl around my upper arms. “I think I can change your mind. In fact, I promise I can.” His fingernails stab into my flesh as he shoves me toward my bedroom.

As I stumble onto my bed, he starts to make good on his promise, and shoves his tongue down my throat. We don’t have sex, but only because he has to rush away for some sort of business meeting. Still, with each touch of his hands, another petal on that rose Ryler wrote about withers and falls to the ground. But he never shows up to pick it up.

Chapter 7

Eyes, Eyes Everywhere

Ryler

After class, I meet Brooks, the other informant I’ve been working with for about three to four weeks now, at the Writing Center. He’s sitting at the table, reading a book, and doesn’t see me walk in. He always wears a baseball cap to keep himself hidden better, so I instantly notice his hat is missing today.

Where’s your hat? I mouth, dropping my books onto the table in front of him.

He jumps from the sound of my books hitting the table then shrugs, seeming nervous as he yanks his hands through his blond hair. “I must have forgotten it today.

You okay? I mouth, pulling out a seat.

“Yep, fine,” he answers without looking up at me.

Strange, but I don’t think much of it until later.

We spend about an hour helping out students who wander in and out of the room, then we take a break. We chat a little bit about classes and dumb shit before we start talking about “work” related stuff.

“I’m starting to wonder if the warehouse is a myth,” Brook says about ten minutes into our break.

Over the last few weeks of working with Brooks, he’s been hardcore determined to take Donny Elderman down. Between him forgetting his hat and his declaration about the warehouse being a myth, red flags are popping up left and right.

My gaze skims the bookshelves, the computer labs, and then the windows to our right. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. The area is as mellow as it usually is.

Leaning over in the chair, I grab my notebook from my bag to write down a response, since Brooks doesn’t understand sign language well.

Really? Why? He has warehouses in Vegas. I’ve seen them myself. I slide the notebook across the table to him.

He picks it up and reads it over. “Yeah, but those are different from the warehouse everyone wants to find. The alleged hideout for Donny Elderman, and where all his dirty stuff goes down. The one in Vegas are basically just places to gamble and whorehouses.” He shrugs and slumps back in the chair. “The one that everyone whispers of—the hideout—is… I don’t know… I just don’t think it’s possible for an entire town full of corruption to be off the radar from everyone.”

Off the radar is an understatement. Over the last couple of weeks, Detective Stale has spent hours searching for the town, even using satellites to try to get a location. But he’s come up with nothing, so either Brooks is correct and the place doesn’t exist, or…

Maybe he’s paid off people, I scribble down.

By he, I mean Donny Elderman, but I never jot his name down. If I did, I risk the chance of the paper falling into the wrong hands.

Brooks leans over the table, reads what I wrote, and then sinks back in the chair. “Do you know how many people he’d have to pay off to keep an entire town under the radar?”

I collect the pen again, thinking, Yeah, but if anyone could do it, it’d be Elderman. I don’t write that down, though, choosing my words carefully. I rub my hand over my face and then press the tip of the pen to the paper. I’ve heard detailed, gory stories of the things that happened down in this warehouse, man. I don’t see why people would just make it up.

“People make shit up all the time. It’s how legends are created and how myths get turned into wild stories that people believe.” He scratches at his wrist, and I notice a small, fresh cut.

Eyeing the scratch, I mouth, What happened?

Shaking his head, he yanks his sleeve down. “Nothing. I just cut myself on a stupid nail while I was helping my father in the shop.”

My brows furrow as I mouth, Shop? What the hell? I’ve never heard of this shop before, and Brooks rarely helps his father due to the fact that he blames him for his brother’s death.

Brooks shakes his head again and gives me a pressing look, begging me to understand something he can’t say.

I resist the overwhelming urge to look around the room again, and instead scribble, Are you okay, man? I shove the paper across the table.

“I’m fine,” he replies then scoots the chair away from the table. He slings his bag over his shoulder and heads for the door. “I have to go. I’ll see you later.”

He’s supposed to be working here for another hour. Something’s definitely wrong.

As I start to stand up to chase after him, he turns around and mouths, Don’t. They’re watching me.

Even though I desperately want to run after him and force him to tell me who they are, I make myself stay put. If Brooks is being watched, then I’m guessing I probably am, too. No wonder Doc knew I snuck Emery out last weekend.

I pick up the pen and write for the rest of my break, pretending everything’s okay when it’s not. Pretending I’m not desperate to get the fuck out of here and text Stale.

They’re watching.

But who?

The Devil himself?

Or his allies?

Eyes, eyes everywhere,

hiding in the dark,

always watching

every move I make.