He opens the door and when we step inside, he flicks the light on, I let my eyes fall on the massive board that he’s got set up. I stare at it for a long moment, and after a second, I turn to him and say, “What’s all this?”
He walks in, taking it all in. “My parents went missing out of nowhere. I never believed they just decided to up and leave; they wouldn’t do that. This house, this life—they loved it. They went on a vacation, and never came back. Got the cops to look into it, but no real leads ever came out of it, and they told me they were likely dead or had decided to create a new life for themselves somewhere else.”
“That’s . . . shitty.”
“They’re not dead—I’m almost sure of it. I’ve been piecing it together for years, but none of it makes sense. I’ll find out what happened to them, though.”
“Is that what all this is?” I ask, staring at the board. “The information you’ve gotten?”
“Yeah,” he tells me, stepping forward. “It’s the information the cops gathered as well as the information I’ve gotten on my own. I was gettin’ close to findin’ somethin’ but then all this shit with Dax happened and I’ve been focused on the club.”
I step forward and point to the girl in the photo I saw the other day. Harlow. “Who is that?”
“She’s got somethin’ to do with it, but fucked if I can work out how. When all of this happened, the cops traced my parents’ movements and we traced it to this club.” He points to a clubhouse on the board near the picture of the three men. “After that, their trail went cold. We couldn’t find anything to indicate where they had gone. This is the last photo of them.”
I stare at the picture of his parents. It’s a semi-blurred camera shot in what looks like some sort of bunker. They’re both standing, staring at something or someone. They don’t look distressed, but they’re definitely focusing on something. I squint and lean in a little farther, looking at every aspect of the photo.
“The cops said it meant nothin’, and that’s when they gave up. But I kept lookin’, and what did I see?”
I shake my head, confused.
“Look closer,” he murmurs, pointing to the lower right-hand corner of the photo.
In it, there’s a shot of someone’s arm. It’s hard to see, and unless you’re looking closely, you wouldn’t notice, because there are a few other people in the photo. This arm, though, is extended, like whoever it belongs to has just handed something to Mykel’s parents.
“That arm belongs to Harlow. Took me a fuckin’ long time to find her. The only way I could locate her was that unique tattoo beneath her palm. Cost me a lot to get it cleaned up enough to see what it is.”
“What is it?” I ask, squinting and leaning in closer. It’s really difficult to see. There is some sort of design on the inside of her wrist that runs up her inner forearm a little.
“That.” He points to another picture of a blown-up tattoo that’s a little clear. It’s definitely unique—a pattern of sorts, with a cross and three names on it, though you can’t see the names. The unique part, however, is the symbols that are above it. They’re, not Japanese, not Chinese, but some sort of symbols that clearly stand for something. It looks like a personally designed tattoo.
“I went to every studio in New York, and finally, after fuckin’ weeks, I found the man who did it. He wouldn’t talk at first, but with a little persuasion, he told me her name and that’s as far as I got. I couldn’t find her and still haven’t been able to find her since. All I know is that she’s part of this somehow.”
I mean, he could be right, but it could also be a huge coincidence that her hand just happened to be in the picture. She could have been dancing; she could have been a waitress handing over a drink. It could have been a mix of things.
“What if it doesn’t have anything to do with her, and you’ve been chasing the wrong lead?”
He looks to me, his eyes narrowing. “How so?”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong or anything,” I say quickly. “I’m just wondering what if that hand has nothing to do with anything? She could have just been someone in the picture who happens to look like she’s handing something over?”
He frowns, as if this hasn’t even crossed his mind. “You think I’m lookin’ for the wrong thing?”
“No, not at all. I just think you need to expand your horizons, so to speak. What about the other people in the picture? Have you talked to the owners of that club? Have you investigated that side of things?”
He stares at me, and then steps forward, taking my face in his hands and shocking me entirely. “You are somethin’ else, Waverly. Help me with this.”
He’s asking for my help?
Oh god.
He wants my help.
My heart swells and I smile. “I’ll help you. We’ll find out what happened to your parents.”
“My sister had them officially declared dead after five years, and I haven’t spoken to her since. She stopped calling me when she found out I inherited the house.”
“I didn’t know you had a sister. I’m sorry that happened to you.”
“I’ve got two sisters and a brother, none that live close.”
“Are you close to them?” I ask.
“None of them have had a great deal to do with me when I took over this house. They think I did something to have it handed to me, but I didn’t. I just stuck around when
