“Hmm?”
“The list of students that were enrolled in the school when I taught there. They’re not included in the list you gave me.”
Clearing my throat, I retreat to the coffee maker. “That was a harder list to make.”
“The hard lists are usually the important ones.”
Nothing gets past Birdie Abel. “You’re absolutely right.”
“Please tell me you have that list. I’d flip if I had to wait again—”
“I have it, Birdie. I just didn’t want to overwhelm you with all the names. It’s a much bigger list than the one you have. How about you finish going through the names you have and then I’ll send the rest?”
She looks back at the screen. “Just send it over, Tristan.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket with a sigh and send her the file. “As you wish. The names are segregated by class. The ones you taught and the ones you didn’t. Their family members are included, too. Same color code applies. Knock yourself out.”
She’s writing down notes again, back to her methodical search. I pour two cups of coffee and set one beside her laptop. She doesn’t look up, but when she reaches for it, our fingers brush.
It’s barely a touch—skin against skin for less than a second—but it detonates something in me, like my body has been waiting for this exact contact. The effect is immediate and devastating. My pulse kicks up. Heat spreads from the point of contact like wildfire through my veins. That single brush of her fingers is enough to unravel me, and yet I crave it. I ache for it.
I want to grab her hand, hold it, feel the warmth of her palm against mine. I want to thread my fingers through hers and never let go.
Instead, I step back like I’ve been burned.
Soon, I promise myself. Soon, I’ll have more than a fleeting touch and scorched tension. Soon, she’ll know the truth about everything, who she can and can’t trust.
Soon, she will be mine. Once Torrance is out of the picture, once she realizes what he really is, she will be mine.
Going back to my own computer, my mind races through the possibilities. I need evidence against Torrance, something solid enough to convince her. Something that can’t be explained away by coincidence or circumstance or by a skilled liar with a badge.
I need something irrefutable. Something that will shatter her faith in him completely.
His phone records, maybe. Financial information. Travel logs that match up with the stalking incidents. Where the fuck has he transferred from? Why can’t I find those records anywhere?
I read somewhere that cops sometimes work under different aliases for security reasons, like if they work on sensitive cases that put targets on their backs. What if Torrance transferred after one of those cases and Jacob Torrance isn’t his real name? That must be why the precinct won’t reveal his information, and his name doesn’t pop up in any database.
Puta madre, why haven’t I thought of that?
A text from Marcus buzzes with an update on the Torrance situation. I’ve had him digging deeper into Detective Douchebag’s background, looking for anything that might serve as proof.
The text says one thing. Torrance isn’t at the precinct. He’s been on emergency leave since yesterday.
Could you be any more sus, pelotudo?
In front of me, Birdie makes another note. She’ll exhaust every lead there first before seeing what’s right in front of her. She’s trying so hard to solve this puzzle, to find safety in logic and lists and methodical investigation. She doesn’t understand that some monsters can’t be caught with spreadsheets and color-coded databases.
Some monsters wear badges and bring you coffee and wish you goodnight.
While she’s chasing shadows in academic databases, I’ll be gathering the real evidence she needs. The kind that will bring her back to me, where she belongs.
CHAPTER 32
Birdie
“Jesus.” I scroll through the student names. “There are so many.”
“Three hundred and forty-seven,” Tristan tells me without looking up from his screen. “That’s just the males. We included female family members of students, too, in case the stalker is using a female relative as a cover.”