ZANDER
As part of its protective detail, partners with The Firm may conduct research on clients using record requests or background checks with or without their consent so long as information is attained in good faith and kept strictly confidential.
The large house is quiet except for the wind battering the sitting room windows. That, and my thundering pulse.
I listen for her. Of course I do. I strain to hear soft footsteps on the stairs or even the creak of the floor above me, but there’s nothing. I check the security cameras from my phone. No sign of movement, either in the house or outside. Silent and still. If only my heart would settle.
Not much chance of that.
The only cameras to watch are focused on her sleeping form. Even with the darkness, her luscious curves tempt me.
My exhale is uneasy as I lean forward, my gaze moving from the laptop to my phone. I occupy one of the modern white chairs in the room, while my phone sits on the one beside me. Those two fucking songs burn holes in it. As if they’ll whisper more of Ella’s secrets.
Snatching it off the chair, I put in a pair of headphones, and lean back in the chair. The laptop sits on the small coffee table surrounded by the four chairs. The screen is still very much lit and the cameras prove to show nothing of use. I blame boredom most of all.
So—the songs. I hit play on the first one.
It nearly blows out my eardrums. Cursing under my breath, I stab at the volume buttons on my phone until it’s less skull shattering. I’m grateful at least there wasn’t a soul present to witness that stunt. Readjusting in my seat, I take a gulp of water, wishing it were whiskey, and set back to listen to the first of the two titles Ella said were her favorites.
My brow lifts as the first one plays.
The song turns out to be … cute. Even if it is about a love so strong it causes a heart attack. I prefer alternative to pop, but I can’t say that I’m not surprised. It’s the kind of song I wouldn’t mind hearing on the radio, but not one I would turn to myself. Same with the second one.
Cute.They’re cute, and maybe they used to reflect on her. Maybe these songs are an echo of the woman Ella used to be before the Rockford Center, and before we came on the scene. Before her “misunderstanding.”
My eyelids get heavy with the beat. Not a usual response to pop music, I guess, but it’s been a long night. My gaze finds Ella’s sleeping form again. The prim and proper presentation she first put on are at odds with this melody.
She’s not the kind of woman who listens to music like that anymore. Whatever happened to her has weighed her down. So much, in fact, that I can’t imagine her dancing to this music. I can’t imagine her with an infectious, broad smile on her face and a lightness to her step.
I could, though …
My eyes widen as the thought strikes me. The information on Ella is out there, as evidenced by plenty of social media posts. Maybe even videos on YouTube or in the depths of Google. If I wanted to spend five minutes searching for it or reading her file, I’m sure I could find plenty of information regarding Ella’s former life.
At this point, I’d have to go with a broad internet search. I lean toward that over the paperwork Cade gave me. If the file has been heavily curated by her manager, which Ella hinted at before, then they’ll have left out any unsavory matters. Let alone instances in which “Heart Attack” and “Sit Still, Look Pretty” would rear their jubilant heads. It won’t be the whole story. Nothing will be the whole story—not without Ella telling parts of it. But I could get hints. Glimpses of what she was like before.
It would mean going against my own personal code for clients. It would mean crossing another line, even if Ella never knows. A hundred justifications fill my mind, but the one that shouts the loudest is the one that’s desperate to know a side of her that may be lost forever.
Tossing my phone down, I bring the laptop back in front of me and my thumb taps softly on the space bar. I don’t dare press it. I don’t do anything but flick through the cameras once again. Hating that there’s nothing to watch but her. A woman who already occupies too much of my mind.
I take my time with a few more checks to confirm that everything is under control—and that Ella isn’t coming back down—and I finally settle on scratching that itch and sating my curiosity, opening up a tab to search her name. There’s relative privacy in here to conduct my “research.”
It’s not unusual to investigate the pasts of our clients when necessary. Most notably if their story doesn’t add up. It used to amaze me how many lies we’d be told that only added to the threat. As if they’d rather die in a lie than live in the truth. This, though … this type of search is unwarranted. My entire body knows this search is different, from the hairs rising on the back of my neck to the uneven beat of my heart. Excitement and adrenaline and trepidation. I don’t feel a thirst for knowledge like this with other clients. I never have. But I knew Ella was different from the moment I first laid eyes on her.
Four-count breaths. Four times. Then my mind is clear enough to type in her name. My thumb hovers over the enter key for only a split second.
It’s easy.
Too easy.
This is no back-alley hunt through the dark web with exchanges of cryptocurrencies and code words. Every tap of the keys echoes under the sound of the wind against glass. Scroll. Click. Scroll. There are numerous videos to choose from. So many with small thumbnail images of Ella’s face. One of her giving the camera the middle finger forces the corners of my lips up. None of them seem too current. All dating from two years ago and further. A tick in the back of my mind notes that it seems some things have been cleared. I’ll have to dig deeper for those if there were takedown notices issued.
She has the typical social media platforms. Although I don’t dig through those just yet.
Refining the search, and clicking away, I scroll past more photos.
They’re all so different from the Ella I know now. The version of a younger, stronger woman in all these thumbnail pictures doesn’t have dark smudges under her eyes. Even in the photos, she doesn’t appear still and quiet and wounded. I couldn’t picture this past-life version of her before, and now that it’s in front of me, the change in her is stark and jarring.
A few videos appear in the search, the name of the site flicking on a switch of alarm. Several clicks and my gaze drifts back to her sleeping form, before I go against my better judgment, and follow the link.