Chapter 6
1084 Words
7:05 a.m.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A headache in the key of G.
The drugstore aisle was empty. Just me and a hundred tubes of colored wax. My eyes felt gritty, sandpapered by a sleepless night. Skin gray under the harsh lighting.
Rows of lipstick.
Pink. Nude. Coral. Coward colors. Shades for girls who followed rules and didn't break into penthouses.
I didn't want safe.
Bottom shelf.
Scarlet Fever.
I twisted the tube. Red. Not polite cherry. Not fun summer berry. It was the color of arterial spray. A stop sign. A warning.
Next time, wear the red lipstick.
A dare.
I could have ignored it. Could have slapped on my usual chapstick and pretended I never got the text. That was the smart move. The prey move.
But I wasn't the mouse anymore. I was the trap.
Cash. $8.99.
Mirrored display by the sunglasses. I applied it without a liner. The wax dragged across dry skin.
I pressed my lips together. Smacked them.
The reflection stared back. The red changed everything. It made my mouth look dangerous. Teeth whiter. Sharper.
War paint.
"Game on," I whispered to the glass.
8:15 a.m.
De Luca Tower.
I didn't scuttle. I walked down the center of the lobby, heels striking the marble like a gavel. Click. Clack.
Old Stan, the guard, blinked up from his crossword. "Morning, Miss Isabella. You look... awake."
"Caffeine, Stan. Intravenous."
Badge swiped. Beep.
Up.
58th floor. The air shifted. Usually, I blended into the beige walls. Camouflage. Today, I felt like a flare gun going off in a library.
I turned the corner toward the breakroom.
Stopped.
Luca.
Leaning against his office doorframe. Impeccable suit, hair sharp enough to cut glass. He was lecturing a terrified intern about pivot tables.
He sensed it. The shift in the room.
He stopped mid-sentence. Turned.
His eyes went straight to my mouth.
He didn't smile. Didn't smirk. His gaze darkened, pupils blowing wide. He tracked the red curve of my lower lip, then dragged his eyes up to meet mine.
Static electricity. The air crackled with it.
He dismissed the intern with a flick of his hand. The kid scrambled away, clutching papers like a shield.
Luca didn't move. He waited.
I forced my legs to work. Left. Right. Don't trip.
I stopped right in front of him.
"Mr. De Luca." Voice steady. Cold.
He leaned down. An inch. Invading my personal space. He smelled of espresso and trouble.
"Isabella." He said the name like he was tasting it. "You got my message."
"Felt like a change," I said. "Spicing up the corporate drone aesthetic."
"It works," he murmured. His eyes dropped to my mouth again. Heavy. "It definitely works."
"Port logs are ready for review," I said. My chest was burning, heart hammering a frantic rhythm. "I'll leave them on your desk."
"Do that."
He stepped back. But as I walked past, I felt his eyes. Burning a hole between my shoulder blades.
He thought I did it for him. He thought I was playing along.
Good. Let him stare at the lipstick. If he was watching my mouth, he wouldn't be watching my hands.
11:30 a.m.
Pivot.
Luca was too sharp. High alert. I needed a softer target. A loose brick in the wall.
Matteo.
The cousin. The "glitch."
I watched him from my desk.
Matteo’s office was three doors down. Unlike Luca, who worked like a machine, Matteo spent half the day shouting into his phone and the other half watching soccer highlights on a tablet.
Sloppy. Arrogant.
11:32. Matteo stood up. Grabbed his jacket. Checked his hair in the window reflection.
Lunch.
He walked out, passing my desk without breaking stride. "Holding down the fort, sweetie?"
"Always, Mr. Matteo."
I waited.
Elevator numbers dropped. Lobby.
I stood up. Grabbed a stack of random files as a prop.
Walked to his office door.
Locked?
Tried the handle.
It turned.
Of course. He didn't lock it. He was a De Luca. He thought the name on the door was a forcefield.
I slipped inside. Door clicked shut.
The office smelled of stale cologne and old pizza crusts. Papers everywhere. A half-eaten bagel on a napkin.
Desk.
Monitor dark. I tapped the space bar.
Password Required.
Damn.
I scanned the desk. Sticky notes. Business cards. A framed photo of Matteo holding a fish.
Nothing.
Top drawer. Pens. Mints. Spare tie.
Second drawer.
Heavy. Black. External hard drive.
White tape label: ARCHIVE - PHYSICAL SEC.
Adrenaline kicked my ribs.
Matteo was Head of Security. Physical security meant cameras. Keycard logs. The raw data before it got scrubbed for the official servers.
I pulled it out. USB cable wrapped around the body.
I couldn't take it. If he came back and it was gone, he’d lock the building down.
I needed to see inside. Now.
Plugged into the tower.
Screen flickered.
Drive E: Detected.
Open Folder.
Files. Hundreds. Organized by year.
2023... 2022... 2021...
Scroll. Hand sweating on the mouse plastic.
2015.
The year.
Double-click.
Subfolders. Jan... Feb... Mar...
August.
Open.
Video files. CCTV. Lobby. Garage. Elevators.
Scan the dates.
Aug 10... Aug 11...
Gap.
Aug 12 was missing. The day she vanished.
Aug 13.
Bile rose in my throat. Scrubbed. He cleaned the timeline.
Wait.
Bottom of the list. Single text file.
ERROR_LOG_AUG12.txt
Open.
Not an error log. A deletion receipt.
Deleted by User: ADMIN_MATTEO Time: 04:15 AM, Aug 13, 2015
He did it. He erased the footage four hours after she went missing.
I reached for my phone. Photo. Proof.
Then I saw it.
Bottom of the window. File metadata.
Last Accessed: Yesterday, 9:42 PM
I froze.
Yesterday. 9:42 PM.
I was in the penthouse then. I was staring at the locket in the box.
Someone else was reading this file.
I checked the User ID.
Not ADMIN_MATTEO.
USER: L_DELUCA.
Luca.
Luca accessed the deletion log last night. While I was in his apartment. While he was pouring drinks and making jokes about whiskey.
He wasn't just hiding the locket. He was checking the digital grave. Making sure the bodies stayed buried.
"Hey!"
Voice. Hallway.
Matteo.
Back early.
I yanked the USB drive. Ding. The computer complained.
Footsteps.
I shoved the drive into the drawer. Kicked it shut with my knee.
Handle turning.
I spun around, clutching the prop files to my chest.
Door swung open.
Matteo. Holding a sandwich. He stopped, staring.
His eyes went to the desk. To the computer. To me.
"What the hell are you doing in here?"
- Writer
