With Visions of Red: Book 2 (The Broken Bonds 2)

Against my will, my lips tip up into a slight smile. “Both.”

I see him shrug from my peripheral. “Whoever you were visiting back there isn’t any of my business,” he says, sending a quick glance my way. “Don’t see how it’s anyone else’s, either.”

I nod. “All right. Thanks.”

“And”—Carson flips the blinker to make a turn, and the car crawls onto a familiar street. My heart picks up its pace—“I thought we might take a stab at a new approach on the victimology. Seeing that the lead the M.E. spun our way didn’t necessarily dead-end.”

We park in front of The Lair.

A loud whirring fills my ears. I brace my hand against the dash as if I can back us out of the parking spot by sheer will. “Why are we here, Carson? That lead led nowhere. I investigated it myself.”

He cracks the door, looks over at me. “I read your report. Not bad for a profiler, I might add.” He winks, causing my gut to twist uncomfortably. “But you speculated that the Viennese rope could’ve been purchased online.”

Forcing my jaw to relax, I say, “I have it on good authority that Vienna makes high quality rope. It’s not a shot in the dark assumption that the UNSUB buys his supplies online rather than attends a bondage event in another country.”

“And I’m not knocking that theory—but that’s exactly what it is; a theory. A speculation. Even though I'm young, I still like to do things by the book. Investigate and exhaust all avenues before I start on a new course.”

Great. Looks like Quinn hired on a clone to fill his shoes. “And even though I’m young, I’ve clocked thousands of field hours. Profiling isn’t all guesswork. I pored hours of research and analysis into every line of that profile.”

It doesn’t need to

be voiced that I spent two days developing my own timeline away from the task force. Little black lines depicting times of death crosschecked against the hours I was with Colton. Outlining the possible connections he had to the victims, the potential interactions. None of which pointed to the club.

All circumstantial. Enough for a lawyer to get any case the department makes against him thrown out, but not enough for me. I need hard evidence. Evidence that either proves his innocence or his guilt. I haven’t thought far enough ahead should I prove the latter.

“Are you coming?”

The reality of the situation hits; I’m about to walk into The Lair. Where I can be recognized. I hold Carson’s stare and mentally curse Quinn. “Let’s go.”

Although it’s hours away from opening, my hope that the club will be empty is quashed when Carson bangs on the blacked-out window and a pretty girl dressed in a pink and black corset unlocks the door. “Can I help you?”

Carson flashes his shield. “We need to speak with the owner. Is he or she around?”

The girl rolls her heavily kohl-lined eyes, as if she’s dealt with police harassment before. “No, he’s busy today. And no, I’m not contacting him for you.” She purses her red lips, then adds, “But his brother just got here. He might be able to answer whatever for you.”

Flipping his leather-covered badge closed, Carson gives the girl a bright, panty-dropping smile. I match the girl’s sentiment with an eye roll of my own. “That would be very helpful, miss,” he says. “Thank you.”

Carson does do some things differently than Quinn, I note. I prefer Quinn’s charmless approach to interrogation—less bullshit—unless it’s directed toward me. I return my gaze to the girl. I don’t recognize her. And since she’s investing her full attention on Carson, she appears not to recognize me, either.

Small blessings.

We follow her into the main entrance. Black walls of a narrow hallway that usually make my adrenaline pump with anticipation now have my nails digging half-moons into my palms. As we push through to the main level, low classical music greets me instead of the bass-filled boom I’m accustomed to. It only just blocks out the city noise from outside.

The atmosphere inside the club during the day is considerably different versus the night. I wonder who selected Beethoven as the musical backdrop. Maybe the brother. I only met the owner once, during my initial application to join the club. I left out all the key details that might have gotten me declined at the time. Already being a member of another association—the ACPD—for one, and the fact that crime scenes arouse me and is what drove me to explore this side of myself.

Shame was prominent, but more so, privacy. Those intimate details…I could never share with a stranger. Which makes the rapid rate at which Colton drew me out of my shell all the more alarming. Just too intense; too uncontrollable.

Back then, I hadn’t planned to ever return to The Lair. I was feeding a craving, trying to assuage my beast by a different means…and it worked. For a time. It may have continued to quell my demons had I never met Colton.

Now, I don’t know where I stand amid the chaos. I’ve been thrown right into the middle of the storm and I’m grasping at the slippery edges. The earth eroding beneath my feet.

“You wait here while I get him,” Corset Girl tells Carson with a wink. Apparently, he’s met his match.

“I could get used to working in this city,” he whispers to me.

“Nice.” I shake my head. But really, I have zero room to talk. The Lair was the second place I scoped out after I made permanent arrangements for my mother at Resting Pines. Along with the non-existent crime rate and a secure placement for my ailing mother, Arlington held all the right attractions for me to settle down on a more permanent basis.

While Carson takes a look around the club, gaze shifting over glass-encased, inlaid shelves showcasing everything from whips and chains to Dom outfits and masks, I stealthily sneak out my phone to send a warning text to Colton. No need for him to make a surprise appearance while I’m here.