Page 9 of Gravehouse

She was. I knew because she gave me this job midway through hers.

Anything, Punk?

Punk: There’s something I forgot to mention. When I began the process of clearing us out of databases connected to Parker, Asher, Camille, and his fuckass brother Atlas, I hit a bump.

Leon: Oh, she’s gonna love this...

What kind of bump?

Three dots appear and my gut twists. Punk doesn’t make mistakes. She’s a coding goddess, trained from the moment she hit Nonna’s doorstep to be exactly what we need. Other organizations would kill for someone half as good. She’s never dropped the ball, not once.

Punk: His fanbase. I can only keep things out of the media, away from prying eyes, but people still talk. Raking through hundreds of thousands of comments every day when they’d post on his page, asking where he was. It was taxing, but I managed to get it under control by creating an automated system that bypassed the likes of even Meta.

I wait for the reveal, painfully aware of who sits beside me.

Punk: It’s just, computers are great, but if they’re not overlooked constantly, things can slip through. Camille was easy enough, since she sincerely thought he had just disappeared on her. Mixed with the passive-aggressive quotes she’d drop every now and then, I didn’t have to do much on her account, but Atlas?

What? He stir the pot? Accuse us of killing him? What?

Punk: No. He fed into the story I planted, asking people to give his brother privacy right now as he lives off a bad breakup. I let his videos through every news agent because they helped us, right? But there was something.

Why the fuck would Atlas play along with Punk’s narrative.

Punk: His eyes would go dark at the end of every sentence while he looked directly into the camera, like he was looking right at me when he’d answer.

Punk: Like he was mocking me. Us.

Punk: I always blew it off as me being a little more paranoid than usual because it was the first time we’d broadened the scope so far out to four people, instead of just the one and maybe a stray parent or sibling. I’m sorry. I should have said something.

Punk: I’m sorry. I should have said something.

My world tilts as I type out a final text.

It’s not your fault.

Clearly, it’s mine, for underestimating them both.

The drive stretches, silence thick between us.

Twenty minutes later, we pull through a high-wire fence and onto a tarmac where his familiar black jet waits.

I open my mouth to ask if I can get changed out of this ridiculous dress, but he’s already out the door.

My side opens and I turn to see a set of honey brown eyes.

“Hello, I’m Sinead—“ They nod their head over their shoulder. “His assistant… of all things.”

“Are you new?” I ask, because I’ve never met them before.

Their eyes dart sideways. “Not new, no, but to you I guess I am. Come on.” They take my hand and I let them, shifting my dress to step out into the wind.

Sinead starts directing me across the tarmac. “Your bags are in there already with clothes already packed. Asher won’t be too much longer.”

I step through the space, memories flick through my head of the last time I was in here, when he came with me to Veilarath to sign the papers of the manor. It feels like a lifetime ago. Veilarath feels like a lifetime ago. I check in with Jasper now and then; he lives in the guest house, maintaining the property, but other than last winter… I’d never been back.

My hand grazes the top of the chair as the lighting dims. The cockpit door is open, and an attendant is shuffling glasses and food around on a table.

She spots me. “Oh, Ivanya! Take a seat and I’ll bring you a drink. You still like it neat?”