Page 18 of Asher Black (The Five Syndicates)
Must not think about it.
Must not think about it.
His voice cuts
through my mental mantra. “What was I supposed to think?” His eyes harden with anger. “You called the cops in the middle of an importa—” He stops himself. “You called the cops on an international burner phone paid for in cash over two years ago in a remote city in Mozambique.”
When he puts it that way, I actually sound pretty badass.
But he isn’t done. “The sim card was in the toilet. It took my tech guys a while to recover it. They didn’t even think they could, but when they finally did, there was nothing on it. Not even a single contact.”
That’s because I knew no one at the time. I have no family, and bouncing around from foster home to foster home makes it hard to make friends. Even now, I only have Aimee and my boss’ number. No one I met during my time volunteering has the money for a phone either. It’s a luxury most people in America don’t even realize is luxurious.
“The phone had severe water damage, and most of its serial number had been scratched off.”
I wince. It wasn’t scratched off purposely. I’m just horrible at taking care of my electronics. Plus, the phone was a ten dollar flip phone that I didn’t really need. It was just a precaution in case of an emergency while abroad. I didn’t even consider keeping it unscathed by my carelessness and penchant for ruining electronics.
He continues, “And in every camera footage we had of you, your head was either down or behind that friend of yours. Aimee. I knew how you look like, but we needed an actual photograph to distribute. The sketch artist’s wasn’t good enough.”
I don’t even register that he knows Aimee’s name. I’m too focused on how lucky I am to have avoided the cameras. I didn’t avoid them intentionally. In fact, I didn’t even consider the cameras until now.
Aimee is just really tall, especially in heels. It doesn’t shock me that her height shielded me from the cameras. As for looking down, I was avoiding looking up because of the dancers hanging above us in the cages.
“That’s your dancers’ faults!” I cry. “Blame them!”
He frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“I wasn’t sure if they were wearing underwear! So, I didn’t look up!”
Asher rubs his forehead roughly and glances up at the ceiling in exasperation. It’s the universal what-am-I-going-to-do-with-you look. And honestly, I ask myself the same question a lot.
He makes a noise between a sigh and a grunt. “When we saw the video footage, you were the only one that was even near the restrooms at the time the cops were called. That part was easy. Identifying you was the hard part. Your face wasn’t on camera, and it looked like you were alone. You didn’t dance with Aimee at all, and while you guys were near each other, you didn’t look like you guys came together.”
I remember. I was lost in my head, imagining Rogue as a strip club. Then, I was focused on Asher when my eyes caught sight of him heading into the VIP area. After that, Aimee danced with some guy, while I danced with strangers.
“Your 9-1-1 call was a dead end. You never identified yourself. Your phone was a dead end. It took forever to trace, and when we finally did, we found out that it was bought in cash.” A dry laugh ripples through him. “I thought someone was after me. You were a fucking ghost. Last week, we got our hands on video footage from someone who filmed my encounter with the cops.”
Memories of people in the crowd that surrounded the two cops and Asher flashed through my head. I had seen people with their cameras out, but I didn’t think to hide my face. I’m so damn stupid.
“Your face wasn’t in it. It was shot from behind, but your hands were on your friend’s back and that guy she was with. I knew it was you. I recognized the dress. After that, it was easier. We pulled the guy’s info from his bar tab. He was just some nobody lawyer you met there. We questioned him, but he knew nothing.”
I’m shocked. They questioned him? Guilt fills my stomach, and I hope he didn’t get hurt because of me. Wait… I remember him exchanging numbers with Aimee. Huh. He didn’t rat us out. I’m giving him mad props, but I don’t even remember his name.
“But your roommate was even easier to find. She posted dozens of pictures from that night on Instagram.” He laughs. “She even geotagged Rogue in them. Imagine my surprise when I saw your face in one of them.”
Our resident advisor took a picture of me and Aimee before we left to Rogue, and Aimee immediately posted it to Instagram—#Rogue #Exclusive #Roomies4Lyfe.
He gives me a sardonic laugh. “All we had to do was look at Rogue’s Instagram feed. We would’ve identified you in minutes. Instead, it took a month. I wasted a damn month and almost a million dollars to find someone who isn’t even a damn threat.”
Hold up. A million dollars?! I can’t even fathom that amount of money.
“You know, I wasn’t even sure whether or not you were a threat when I came here. Your background check came up empty. Not just clean but empty. As in there’s nothing on you past this last month.”
That’s because my last foster dad, Steve, the one that gave me the shirt I’m currently wearing, is a crazy fuck. He had an unhealthy obsession with me. Maybe he still does. He was starting to act on it, sneaking into my room at night and staring at me.
One time, I woke up to go to the bathroom, and he was there, stroking himself at the foot of my bed. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep, figuring I was safer asleep than awake. I was relieved when he didn’t touch me that night, but I’ll always wonder if he had in the past and I just never woke up to it.
The next morning, I packed my bags, ditched school and headed straight to my social worker, who got me the Hell out of there. I spent my last month as a minor in some shitty group home, where Steve kept trying to visit me, even though he was warned by the cops not to.
