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)
Seconds crawled.
My pulse hammered against my throat as I pressed my back to the wall, scanned both ends of the hallway.
Every shadow looked like a person.
Every creak sounded like footsteps.
Where were the twins?
I thought of the twins outside the suite and guarding the space.
Were they still there?
Were they safe?
The door opened.
Hiro stepped out, with his gun lowered but not holstered. “It’s clear.”
“Good.” I took one step forward and then swallowed. "What happened to the twins?"
The question left me before I could stop it.
He studied me for a long moment. "What you guessed and more."
"Who cut the scar in Yuki's chin?"
Something dark passed over Hiro's face. His jaw tightened. "A man his mother was dating. They think it could have been their father, but they don't know."
"Oh God.”
"Their mother was like mine. Sold herself on the street. Constantly got caught up with disgusting men."
I held my breath.
Hiro holstered his gun slowly. "The man lived with them for a while, and he didn't like that he couldn't tell them apart."
Horror hit me.
His voice went flat. "So, he got a large knife, held Yuki down, and sliced his chin."
My hand flew to my mouth. "And where was their mother?"
"Right there." Hiro's eyes met mine. "Laughing and holding back Aki."
A shiver raked down my spine.
"Later that night, Aki cut his own chin so the man still couldn't tell them apart. And so. . ."
"Yuki wouldn't wear the scar alone."
Hiro nodded.
"When did this happen?"
"When they were six years old."
"Holy shit."
"Yeah." He stepped aside, clearing the doorway. "No one else knows that story besides me. Don't tell Kenji or Reo."
I blinked. "What?"
“I’m serious.”
“Why did you tell me?”
"Because you would've gotten into investigative mode and tried to find out anyway."
He was right.
I would have.
Part of me already had been—cataloging details, building theories, trying to understand the tragedy written on their faces.
"Thank you," I whispered. "For trusting me with that."
Hiro didn't respond. He just gestured toward the open door. “No problem, Velma.”
Smirking, I headed to Mami's bedroom, carrying the twins' secret like a stone in my chest. When I entered, it was like stepping into a painting that had started to bleed off its canvas.
Where Yuki's room was quiet gray, Mami's was saturated in red.
And not just one red, but layers of it.
Deep wine-red curtains pooled against the floor. Burnt scarlet throw pillows scattered across a low crimson armchair. A rust-red rug sprawled under a bedspread splattered—literally—with flecks and smears of dried paint.
I quirked my brows. “Red. Everywhere.”
Hiro stayed near the wall. “What does the red tell you?”
I got a closer look at the curtains. “Red is one of the most volatile colors. It’s emotionally loud. Physiologically loud. Humans react to it whether they want to or not.”
“How do humans react to it?”
“It increases respiration rate and blood pressure. It physically stimulates you. Makes your brain alert. Heightens everything—anger, hunger, desire, fear. That’s why stop signs are red.”
“That fits.”
Canvases leaned against nearly every inch of wall space. Some half-finished, others complete and waiting for frames.
An easel commanded the space directly in front of the far window—north-facing probably for consistent light.
Hmmm.
I went to the painting and looked at it. The cliffs were a bruised violet, the water a sharp turquoise, the sky streaked in violent streaks of sunset. It made the place look both beautiful and like it might decide to kill you.
Mami is very intense.
The smell of linseed oil and turpentine wrapped around me, threaded through with something floral—the ghost of perfume caught in fabric and paint.
Hiro spoke, "I didn’t realize Mami was so messy."
"Many artistic geniuses are, and she’s a damn good artist."
I lifted my phone, turned on the video to record, and did a slow turning shot—canvases, paint-splattered drop cloths, stacks and stacks of sketchbooks, a small table with jars of cloudy water, brushes standing up like wilted flowers.
Tons of shoes, shirts, and art books were scattered across the floor.
The bed looked like the only thing she'd tried to tame—ruby red duvet pulled neat and tight, cherry-shaped pillows had been arranged just so.
That snagged my attention.
Everything else screamed movement.
Chaos.
Life mid-creation.
Only the bed was perfect.
My instincts pricked up like a cat's ears.
The bed being the only neat thing in the entire room told me more than the paint-splattered chaos ever could. In environmental psychology, an obsessively perfect bed in an otherwise explosive space usually meant one thing.
Control.
The bed is the most intimate territory a person has. If everything else in their world feels overwhelming—emotion, desire, rejection, longing—they will hyper-manage the one place where their body rests.
A neat bed becomes a boundary.
A sanctuary.
A performance of stability.
Or. . .
A place prepared for someone specific.
Someone she wanted to welcome.
Someone she wanted to impress.
Kenji.
I scanned the messy space. “Okay. At least I can touch things a little more in here and she has no idea that I was even snooping.”
“Good point.”
Since the bed was decently together, I went over there, crouched, and checked underneath. “Oh. This is interesting.”