Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 161615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 539(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 539(@300wpm)
“Her personal bookshelf still reflects her devotion to Kenji.”
Hiro's shoulder lifted in a tiny shrug. "Yuki's always read what he read.”
“I bet.” I took some more pictures. “Why do you think she does it?”
“I believe that Yuki guesses that if she mirrors Kenji enough, he'll see her."
"See her how?"
He didn't say anything at first. His gaze drifted toward the nightstand.
I followed it.
The framed photo there showed a much younger Yuki, maybe nine, in a too-big sweater, Kenji's hand resting on her head. She wasn't looking at the camera. She was looking at him like he'd hung the moon and was about to hang a second one just to impress her.
Wow.
"Yuki doesn't want his protection," Hiro’s jaw clenched. "She wants his devotion, so she gives him hers."
But could that make her a spy?
I tapped my finger against the phone. “People who aren’t true bookworms. . .they design their bookshelves different.”
“How?”
“They curate them. Displaying certain books is a kind of performance. It says, ‘This is who I want you to think I am.’” I reached out and my fingers hovered near the spines without touching. “She wants Kenji to walk in and think, ‘Yuki is so much like me. We are practically the same. She’s my soulmate.’”
I moved my hand away, and took more photos of the bookshelf and the nightstand.
We moved farther in.
I assessed the small writing desk. On it was neatly stacked stationery, a vintage fountain pen, and an Italian language textbook lying open with a page marked. Little sticky notes dotted the margins in delicate handwriting—vocabulary, verb conjugations, careful circles of effort around every phrase.
“She’s trying to learn Italian. That’s got to be something outside of Kenji.” I looked at Hiro. “Right?”
“Maybe, but Kenji likes Italian operas.”
“Hmmm.” I went to the vanity and took in the collection of antique combs and hairpins. “No makeup or jewelry. Just a display.”
Every antique comb and hairpin was displayed like museum artifacts—Japanese lacquer, mother-of-pearl, delicate tortoiseshell carvings—arranged in a perfect gradient of color and age.
Too perfect.
Too still.
No makeup.
No brushes.
No moisturizer.
Not even a smudge on the mirror.
“Collecting antique combs is interesting. . .”
Hiro watched me but didn’t interrupt.
“Combs are historically symbols of intimacy—someone else touching your hair, tending to you, loving you. What do you think about, Hiro, when you see these antique combs?”
“Back in the day, they were given as courtship gifts.”
“Oh. Super interesting and very romantic.” I studied the pins again. “These don’t feel like objects she uses. They feel like objects she wishes she deserved to use.”
Still no makeup.
I checked the drawers—empty.
Every single one.
A chill rolled down my spine.
Do a full assessment and make sure you don’t miss anything.
If I accused the wrong girl. . .or trusted the wrong one. . .someone could die.
Maybe me.
Maybe Kenji.
“My guess. . .this isn’t about beauty. . .it’s about denial. Becoming the kind of woman she thinks Kenji would want—one who exists quietly, decoratively, without making demands.”
The thought hit harder than I expected. “She keeps things super neat and minimal too.”
“What does that tell you, Nyomi?”
“Order like this isn’t just neatness, it’s anxiety management. People who feel watched—or evaluated—keep everything pristine so they never give anyone ammunition to judge them.”
Hiro’s jaw flexed.
“I wonder who judges her and why does she care?” I crouched and checked under the bed: plastic storage bins, labeled and arranged by topic.
More books.
More opera programs.
Shoe boxes, each labeled with the brand and style, lined up in a perfect row.
"I don’t think Yuki is a spy, she’s just someone who has built an altar out of Kenji."
Hiro didn't contradict me.
I moved to the bed, the gray duvet smoothed so perfectly it could've been ironed after every nap. Four pillows were on top—three standard, one decorative with embroidered cranes in silver thread.
For some reason, I picked up the pillows and touched them.
My fingers brushed the first pillow.
Nothing.
Second and third pillows.
Nothing.
Curious, I lifted the decorative one—and my hand brushed against something firmer than down. "Hmmm. What’s this?”
Hiro got to the bed.
I angled the pillow and shook it.
A vibrator fell out of it.
“Oh.” I blinked.
Hiro smirked.
We both checked it out.
The vibrator was obsidian black with veins of gold that caught the light like liquid fire. Its dragon shape curved with a predatory elegance. The shaft was adorned with scale-like ridges that promised both pain and pleasure.
The tail—long and sinuous—coiled into a handle worn smooth from probably nights of desperate, solitary worship.
I could almost feel the heat of it, imagining how it would look glistening wet in the dim light of this shrine-like bedroom. "Of course it's a dragon."
I stared at it, and before I could stop it, my imagination painted the scene.
Yuki in this bed.
Alone.
The gray duvet pushed aside, her body bare against those cool sheets. Her dark hair fanned across those pristine pillows she kept so perfectly arranged.
I imagined her reaching for this dragon, and her thighs would part slowly, knees falling open as her breath quickened. One hand would drift to her breast first—squeezing, pinching, rolling her hungry nipple between trembling fingers until it peaked hard and aching.