Blood & Lace

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  Where there is light, there must be shadow.

  —Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

  Prologue

  Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

  Eden Sterling tried to slow her pounding heart by breathing in and out as slowly as she could manage. She’d learned the “in through the nose, out through the mouth” technique when she was carsick on family trips as a kid, but it wasn’t doing the trick this time.

  Her head throbbed, and her body ached all over. Roughly tied bindings tore into the translucent flesh on her delicate wrists, causing her to whimper out loud.

  Her back burned from the taut pull of her arms over her head, but there was nothing she could do about it. Attempting to yank her arms free only caused the bindings to cut deeper and her shoulder blades to catch fire. Slowly, she remembered this pose, remembered the viewer from her webcast describing it in detail.

  Sexy. Alluring. Enticing. Those were the words he’d used. He was wrong.

  More like sadistic, agonizing, and excruciating.

  Closing her eyes tightly, she struggled to center herself, to slow the fear racing to the forefront of her mind.

  The only truth she could focus on with any clarity was that she was either in a room with no windows, or the windows were covered. She couldn’t be sure. It was damp and dark. Like a basement.

  She’d lost all sense of time. She couldn’t decipher how long she’d been there or how or when she’d gotten into this horrifying predicament. She glanced around as much as her restrictive position would allow, but there were no clues to be found. The empty concrete room held only a few cardboard boxes shoved into corners, a bare bulb that was dim but still hurt her eyes to look at directly, and a narrow mattress beneath her connected to the slatted oak headboard she was bound to.

  Several metal apparatuses hung from the ceiling, and she had an overwhelming sense of foreboding that forced her to look away from them.

  She swallowed thickly, still trying unsuccessfully to regain control of her racing heartbeat. Her full breasts, lifted by the black lace push-up bra she wore, heaved into view. This was exactly what he’d wanted.

  Sadistic bastard.

  She forced herself to hold on to the anger she felt—it seemed like it was the only thing keeping the blood racing through her veins.

  Footsteps outside sounded nearby. Each step she heard echoing closer made it harder to breathe normally.

  The door opened in a torturously slow, deliberate motion. And there he was. Whoever he was.

  He wore all black, his face concealed by a ski mask.

  No, she thought to herself. This is not happening. Not to me. Not like this. These kinds of things don’t happen in real life.

  But they did. She knew they did. Her insides twisted painfully, as if they were trying to escape her body, escape the horror before the torture began.

  She opened her mouth to protest once the figure was in full view, but he held up a rope in one hand and a glinting knife in the other, effectively silencing her.

  She strained her neck and lifted her head to watch him walk toward her, and was paralyzed by the gripping fear that seized her on all sides. Seeing him turned her inside out, but taking her eyes off him for even a second proved impossible.

  He’s too big to fight off. Maybe I can plead with him, offer him money, convince him to let me go.

  Before she could make a single plea, a needle jabbed deep into her left arm. Her jaw locked, slamming her teeth together as it clenched shut—trapping both the scream and the rising bile inside her mouth.

  “Shh,” he rasped into her ear. “Not too much longer now.”

  The voice was wrong—entirely too calm for what was taking place. As if he were a maître d’ at a five-star restaurant informing her that her table was almost ready.

  Worse, it was familiar.

  No, no, please, God, no, she prayed internally when she felt herself slipping away. She pulled at every nerve ending, every synapse, and every single cell in her body, screaming at them to come back to life and fight. For all her efforts, she barely managed to jerk her chin a few inches upward. Her skull felt like it was made of lead.

  A low chuckle reverberated around the room. “No point in struggling, sweetheart. The fun is just beginning.”

  1

  LAX was a crowded nightmare. Chloe made her way along the line to baggage claim, carefully navigating a crowded sea of people in a hurry. Her entire body was sore from being cramped on an airplane for an entire day. Her skin felt clammy and oily—the stale, stagnant air from the plane clinging to her like a grimy film. A shower sounded like heaven.

  Shifting the weight of her computer bag to her other shoulder, she retrieved her cell phone and dialed her sister.

  It went straight to voice mail, so she left a quick message, letting Eden know that she’d arrived and would either Uber it or get a cab to her house.

  Once she’d yanked her sturdy silver suitcase from the belt on the carousel, she exited the airport through the automatic doors. Cabs, as well as town cars, were lined up along the sidewalk. Just as she started to step over to one, she saw a well-dressed, gray-haired man holding an electronic tablet with her name on it.

  “I’m Chloe Sterling,” she informed him once she was close enough. “But I didn’t call a car service.”

  The man smiled and nodded. “I’m Maxwell with Elite Travel. Someone must’ve wanted you to arrive in style.” He gestured to the brand-spanking-new black sedan behind him.

  Chloe rolled her eyes, knowing exactly who that someone was. She’d told her sister a dozen times not to go to any trouble.

  “Let me guess, you’re taking me to Eleven Twenty-Three Poppy Lane?”

  The man checked his tablet. “I am.”

  Chloe handed over her suitcase while wondering how much the ride had set Eden back. Her sister was always extravagant with money, but she had to admit, it was nice to ride comfortably after such a long flight.

  Once she was safely ensconced in the plush leather back seat, she sent Eden a text.

  Not at all what I meant by “don’t go to any trouble,” sister of mine.

  She waited several minutes, but no reply came through. Chloe watched the landscape of downtown LA pass by, lulled by the gentle rocking of the car and the comfort of the back seat, feeling both concerned and relieved when the city buildings gave way to smaller cottage houses and a quaint-looking historic town. This wasn’t at all what she’d pictured when she’d imagined LA.

  “So what brings you to Los Feliz?” her driver asked.

  “My sister . . . I’m just here for a visit,” she informed him absently.

  “Ahh. Well, there’s a lot to see and do. How long are you staying?”

  “A week,” she said, wondering if it would feel like too brief or too long of a visit when it was time to go.

  “No time at all then,” he commented. “Where are you from originally?”

  “Boston.” She scrolled through her cell phone, frowning when she saw that Eden still hadn’t called or texted her back.

  She texted Cassie “CJ” Jackson, the photographer she worked with back home—the closest thing she had to a best friend—and let her know she’d arrived safely. CJ sent a text back telling her to get some sun and bag a surfer for her.

/>   Chloe rolled her eyes. With her black pixie cut and all of her tattoos and piercings, CJ looked like a Gothic Tinker Bell. She hated sunshine and would likely tell any surfer dudes who hit on her to go fuck themselves. Another text from CJ came through.

  Don’t check the headlines.

  Of course that meant she had to. Pulling up her Internet browser made her angry—Senator Truman was on the cover of the Globe and the Los Angeles Times. Pictures of him with his wife and daughter were featured below headlines screaming what a wonderful husband and father he was. The man was a fake, a dirtbag who beat up prostitutes while posing as a squeaky-clean family man to the public. It was his fault Chloe’d been suspended and her flawless reputation had been tarnished.

  “Long way from home.”

  Chloe glanced up from her phone. Small talk was not her thing. Unless she was doing research for a story and had an objective, she’d never been so hot at it. Eden was the social sister, the charismatic one who smiled and chatted easily.

  “Um, yeah. Guess so.”

  “Your first trip to California, I assume,” Maxwell observed.

  “It is.” She glanced at the flower- and tree-lined streets as they blurred by. It really was beautiful.

  Her sister had been right in her description on the phone. This neighborhood reminded her a little of the one they’d grown up in, flooding her with memories of innocence and freedom. Before their mother had passed away, before their father had lost himself in bottle after bottle, their childhood had been filled with mostly good memories. She could practically see her and Eden riding their bikes down the street like they’d done as kids. Maybe this little visit wouldn’t be so bad. She might even relax for once in her life.

  “Hope it’s not your last trip out here,” Maxwell added while pulling to a stop at the curb. “Well, here we are,” he announced. “Doesn’t look like anyone is home though. You have a way to get inside?”

  Chloe nodded. When they’d discussed her arrival a week ago, her sister had mentioned that she might be late getting in from a shoot downtown due to traffic.

  She got out of the car and drank in the sight of the small craftsman-style cottage house. Olive-green siding trimmed the house, and it had a bright-white, freshly painted front porch that included a swing. The house appeared warm and welcoming, with its shutter-framed windows and oversize stone flowerpots on the front porch, much more so than the sterile-looking, overly modern condo her sister had sent pictures of a few years ago. Eden was right—Chloe loved the house already, and she hadn’t even been inside yet.

  The windows were dark, and there was no car in the driveway and no signs of life whatsoever.

  She opened her purse to tip Maxwell, but he declined with a lift of his hand. “Already taken care of, miss. Enjoy your visit.” He wheeled her suitcase to the front door and nodded like a gentleman. “I won’t pull away until I see that you’re safely inside.”

  He had to be at least fifty or older, but the concern for her well-being felt nice all the same. “Thank you,” she said, taking the steps to the porch carefully. “Sure I can’t tip you?”

  “No need. I was generously compensated already.”

  She tossed an uneasy grin and half wave over her shoulder at Maxwell, and he smiled warmly. He seemed sincere enough, but years of living in a high-crime city and reporting on violent crimes made Chloe suspicious of pretty much everyone.

  Thankfully, the streetlamps were coming on as it grew darker. Chloe made her way to the door, where an electronic keypad taunted her. What happened to regular old locks and keys?

  She punched in the month and day of their birth as her sister had instructed her last week over the phone.

  Nothing happened.

  Footsteps approached, and Chloe whirled around.

  Maxwell stopped short. “Everything okay?”

  Her back heated as her nerves tingled with annoyance. She’d flown all the way across the country and couldn’t get in the house. And she didn’t want this man to have to wait with her. Lord knew it could be the wee hours of the morning before Eden came home.

  “This type of lock . . . I’m not familiar with it.”

  Maxwell nodded. “Do you know the code?”

  Chloe bit her lip. “I tried it and nothing happened.”

  Maxwell frowned at the keypad. “Did you hit unlock?”

  She studied the keypad more closely, noticing that directly above the numbers were two small, round buttons. One had the picture of a locked padlock and the other had the same padlock icon unlocked.

  Smooth, dumb-ass. She rolled her eyes at her own stupidity, blushing with the shame of embarrassment.

  “Yeah, that might help.” She punched the unlock button and heard a click. Relief swept through her. “Thanks. Guess I’m just old-fashioned. Probably need to join the twenty-first century soon.”

  “Nah,” Maxwell said with a smile. “I think old-fashioned is just fine.” He gestured to the keypad. “When you leave, punch in the code again and hit the lock button after. Don’t forget, or it won’t lock.”

  She smiled. “Thanks. I’ll get used to this newfangled technology sooner or later. Guess I’ll have to.”

  “No problem. Have a nice night.” With that, Maxwell returned to his sleek town car and pulled away from the curb.

  Chloe pushed the door open and lugged her suitcase inside. She felt along the wall for a light switch. Finding one, she flipped it, relieved when it illuminated the living room. Her gaze swept over the cozy but sparsely decorated space.

  The majority of the room was monopolized by a charcoal-gray sectional decorated with several turquoise and cream throw pillows at each end and a deep teal chenille blanket tossed over the back. In front of it sat an expensive-looking coffee table that likely wasn’t from the United States. A large flat-screen television was mounted to the wall.

  Chloe wondered who’d helped with that, since electronics typically weren’t Eden’s thing. A few exotic-looking lamps she assumed her sister had picked up while traveling dotted the corners of the room. Some were floor lamps and others sat on various styles of end tables.

  Nothing matched, but somehow everything “fit.” It was very Edenesque.

  An alcove to her right held a small dining table cluttered with magazines and mail. She moved past the breakfast nook, toward the kitchen, in hopes of finding a note that might indicate when Eden would be home. All she found were stainless steel appliances and granite countertops.

  “Not bad for someone who doesn’t cook, little sister,” she muttered to herself while running her fingers across the cool stone countertop. She jokingly referred to her twin as the younger one due to the fact that Eden was born one minute after her.

  A peek in the fridge revealed fresh-looking groceries. Clearly her sister had stocked up for her visit. Chloe smiled at some of the items—things she ate but knew Eden didn’t. Like the carton of Neapolitan ice cream in the freezer. The full-fat kind, not the fake healthy stuff Eden ate. It made her feel loved and slightly guilty for waiting so long to visit.

  Pushing open a door to what she’d correctly assumed was the bathroom, she caught the faint scent of vanilla. After she relieved her bladder, something she’d desperately needed to do since she’d left the airport, she washed her hands and tried calling her sister again.

  Straight to voice mail.

  She continued exploring the house, but it felt invasive to take a peek inside the master bedroom without her sister there—even though they had shared a room for nearly thirteen years.

  “Edy?” she called, just to make sure her sister wasn’t home and napping or sleeping off a hangover, and pushed the door slightly ajar. It was dark, so she had to repeat her wall groping in an attempt to find a light.

  She found a lamp instead of a switch and clicked it on.

  The human mind is a complex thing, an intricate network of capability and untapped potential. In those moments, as she perused the meticulously neat room, Chloe’s mind began to develop theories
without her permission. The reporter segment began analyzing the position of everything. Prescription bottles. A scrap of lace peering out from under a throw rug. Melted wax from a candle that had burned out onto the desk.

  The sister portion of her mind began to worry relentlessly.

  Eden was messy. Even as an adult she tended to keep things in what she lovingly referred to as “cluttered chaos.” There was no clutter in this room. Not like the rest of the house, where touches of Eden’s personality could be seen in scattered blankets, piles of mail and magazines, and mismatched furniture and photo frames all over the place.

  There was a story here, and Chloe began to put it together.

  Something was wrong. She could feel it. Eden’s room looked staged, minus a few tiny details only a crime reporter would notice.

  She tried to shake the feeling.

  Your job has made you paranoid, Sterling. Chill.

  But she couldn’t.

  As evening turned to night and night gave way to morning, Chloe dozed on and off while curled up on her sister’s couch. By sunup, her paranoia had grown to full-blown fear.

  She called her sister’s cell phone over and over again, holding on to the hope that Eden might pick up. But she knew the fact that her calls were still going straight to voice mail likely meant the phone was dead.

  When twenty-four full hours had passed since her arrival with still no word from Eden, Chloe accepted the truth.

  Her sister wasn’t tied up with work. She was missing. And if her “twintuition,” as they’d nicknamed it when they were kids, was functioning properly, she was in danger.

  2

  Gage Pierce rubbed strained, overworked eyes and blinked several times. The ones and zeroes still blurred before him. The asshole who had invented binary code deserved to have his ass kicked. Twice. A day.

  He’d been on the case of a notorious, large-scale distributor of child pornography who called himself the Candy Man. For three months, Gage had tracked him into private chat rooms time and time again, but the son of a bitch kept disappearing down wormholes on the Dark Net. Each and every time, it seemed like Gage had been baited and the Candy Man was toying with him. He vowed that when—not if, but when—they found the sick bastard, he was requesting at least one unmonitored interview with him. During that small window of time, the Candy Man was going to trip over several chairs and run into a lot of doors.