Page 115 of Rage
I slide the photographs into a neat pile. “Roman wants Amy.”
We all glance at each other. Zero picks up a blunt and lights it.
There are two wars. One with the Order and whomever Roman is a part of. My guess is Mafia. I pull out the photograph Zero sent me, hating him with the thought of him touching Amy.
Zero takes a drag. The scent of marijuana fills the air. He pulls out his laptop. Zero’s fingers move over the laptop. His expression changes.
“What?” Azriel asks.
Zero doesn’t answer right away. He turns the screen toward us.
A file tree fills the display.
Mancini Legal Holdings.
Private domestic contracts.
Medical releases.
Marriage license drafts.
Photographs.
My blood goes still.
Valen leans closer. “Roman’s archive.”
“No,” Zero says quietly. “Victor’s copy of Roman’s archive.”
The room changes.
Azriel’s face drains of color. “Victor has her files?”
“Everything Roman kept,” Zero says. “Everything he used to control her. The license. The photos. The surveillance. The notes from when she was fifteen.” His jaw tightens. “Victor didn’t just find her. He bought the map to every wound Roman left open.”
I look at the marriage license on the table.
Roman is dead. But his cage still has keys. And Victor Sokolov has them.
“I’ll keep tabs on Victor and the Order,” Zero says. “They don’t know you left. I took care of the feed. Valen took care of the Order.”
I tap Roman’s photograph once. “Now this one is mine.”
Amy
The library empties around me one chair at a time. Somewhere behind me and the rows of shelves, a clock chimes seven.
I should leave. It’s getting late, and it will be completely dark soon. I don’t want to have to walk alone in the dark back to my dorm. The past few days, I haven’t seen Rose in her dorm. I have too much going on to ask her, and besides, it’s none of my business.
I underline the same sentence for the fourth time without reading a single word. Roman’s voice won’t leave my head. The pen slips from my fingers.
I close the book and call it a night.
Outside, the air has turned sharp, carrying the scent of rain over the old stone buildings of Kenyan. The quad is nearly empty, and classes are over. The coffee shop closes in fifteen minutes.
The lights lining the walkways cast long amber shadows across the brick paths. I pull my sweater tighter around myself and start toward the dorms. Halfway across the quad, a nagging feeling returns.
The awareness of being watched.
