Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha novel Chapter 22

Chapter 22: Delving Into the Mystery

After I explain everything, Penelope does her best to convince me to stay at her place. I shrug off her concerns, telling her to go to work and act like everything’s normal.

She’s not thrilled, but by five I’m alone with a stack of papers and a mystery.

A text from Scott tells me I’m supposed to be at work on time tomorrow. No problem. Already planned on that.

It’s terse and to the point. From anyone else, it would be a simple professional message. From Scott? He’s probably upset I walked out on him.

Seriously need to consider getting a different job.

I pour myself a generous glass of Merlot, the rich aroma wafting up as the deep red liquid swirls in the glass. Grabbing a bag of pretzels from the pantry, I settle on the floor in front of my couch, spreading the printouts across the coffee table. The familiar crinkle of the pretzel bag provides a comforting background noise as I flip open my notebook, pen poised to jot down my findings.

"Alright, let’s see what we’ve got here."

I take a sip of wine, savoring the bold flavor as I scan the first set of documents.

Scott’s name jumps out at me from multiple pages. Consultant. Phone conversations. Itemized estimate provided. All from Scott.

I scribble down the dates, connecting them with arrows to the corresponding service requests.

"What the hell were you up to, Scott?"

The pretzel I pop into my mouth turns to sawdust as I see another unsettling coincidence. Each account has been paid for with a bank number in the same last four digits.

What are the odds? Pretty astronomical, I’d say.

The irregularities are so obvious that it’s hard to fathom why the SED would even think these are legitimate accounts. It definitely doesn’t explain how Logan would trust a single word coming out of Scott’s mouth about our relationship.

Has the SED even seen these files?

Logan didn’t specify what they knew.

Who died recently? It should be in the news, right?

I pause, pinching the bridge of my nose. Stupid. The news should have been the first thing I looked at.

This is why I’m a consultant for anti-magic security and not an investigator of massive crimes.

I grab my laptop, balancing it precariously on my knees as I settle back against the couch. The wine glass teeters dangerously close to the edge of the coffee table, and I nudge it back with my foot. The soft glow of the screen illuminates my face as I pull up a search engine.

"Alright, let’s see what we’ve got here."

My fingers fly across the keyboard with various search terms. The results load quickly, but as I scan through them, my heart sinks. Nothing. Not a single headline or article that matches what I’m looking for.

"Come on, there’s got to be something," I mutter, reaching for my wine glass and taking a long sip.

I turn to the files spread out on the coffee table, picking up the first one and squinting at the name. "Marcus Holloway," I read aloud, then type it into the search bar along with "obituary."

The results load, but it’s just a sea of unrelated Marcus Holloways. None of them match the description in the file, and none of them are recently deceased.

"What the hell?"

I try the next name. "Allison Tyler." Again, nothing. No obituaries, no news articles, not even a social media profile that matches.

All of my clients had responded. Several had answered their phones. A few had returned voice mails. And many responded through text and e-mail.

"You fucking dumbass." Leaning my head back against the couch cushions, I groan at the ceiling. "He must have thought I was such an idiot." Remembering how assertive I was in insisting to Mr. Fernsby none of our clients were missing in a macabre manner, I cringe.

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