"Her name is Avery Victoria Callaghan. She was born to a Marissa Smyth and a Richard Callaghan in ninety-nine, Bakersfield. Both parents apparently died this past April, nearly seven months ago. Prior to that, though, she had an exemplary record, and participated in all kinds of extracurricular activities."
Hunter turns to me with a raised brow, but I don't bother to look at him because I know exactly what he's thinking.
"Continue."
He sighs, turns his gaze back to the tablet in his hands.
"She moved here two months after graduating, top of her class. She sort of went off the grid for almost a year, I'm assuming learning whatever tricks she has up her sleeve right now.
"According to the banking information she gave Mona, she managed to get some kind of scholarship, because there were sizable amounts paid into her account every three months. They stopped entirely exactly six months ago, to the date."
I keep my eyes on the rearview mirror, where I can see the reflection of a navy blue sedan that's been following us for the past eight blocks. It wouldn't have been a big deal, if the car hadn't taken a turn onto the highway when we did.
"Inheritance?" I ask.
Hunter shakes his head. "Each parent had one, both well over two million dollars. It doesn't make sense that she's your whore. No offense."
That catches my attention. I tear my gaze away from the car following us to look at the tablet Hunter is holding out for me.
"This makes absolutely no sense at all."
"Yeah, it doesn't. Which is why I went ahead and did a lot more digging," he says, swiping right on the screen.
It was a Facebook account, maybe created a decade ago. The name read 'Avery Victoria Callaghan', but the profile picture was of an adolescent Caucasian girl. I'm guessing this is what the real Avery must have looked like before she died in an accident with her parents exactly six months ago.
"I know. You're thinking, 'Plenty of women have this exact name. That's not a red flag.' What is alarming, though, are the identical social security numbers, the house they grew up in, their age, their entire childhood. It's just unheard of, Aldine. One of these girls stole her identity from the other, and since the other woman is dead, I'm going to bet that your little whore is an identity thief."
I glance at Hunter, who gives me a pointed look before turning his attention to the car behind us.
Well, fuck me.
"We still have those cameras in the apartments, right?"
Hunter nods. "Oh, yeah. Already ahead of you on that. I've been watching her since this morning."
I gesture for him to pass me the feed, and in no time I'm watching her while she sits at her desk, reading over the same paragraph over and over from one of her textbooks. I am pissed, and I seethe silently at the look of adorable innocence on that lovely face.
"Watch her closely. I want to know exactly what she's doing, when, where and why. Most importantly, with whom. If she steps even slightly out of line, notify me immediately."
Hunter nods, and we both look up as my driver, Mike, makes a sudden turn off the highway as planned.
Several cars honk after us, but they all stop short of hitting us as we successfully manoeuvre our way off the highway.
"Thank you, Mike."
"Always a pleasure, sir."
____________________________________
I am buried in my books, glasses perched almost loosely on the bridge of my nose as my finger ran from margin to margin while I read through the paragraph for what felt like the seven hundredth time that day.
I blink when the words start to blur, shake my head gently and start at the top one more time.
Focus, Avery. Focus.
But it's no use.
I sigh, finally removing the glasses from my nose and tossing them on the open book in front of me.
I get up to pour some water in the kettle and set it to boil, then go about making myself a cup of lemongrass tea. A strong enough brew usually helped calm my thoughts, just enough for me to focus on what I needed to do.
The absolute last thing I needed was to let myself think of Mr. Aldine and his cock.
My mind is suddenly filled with images of last night. Me, on my knees, taking his swollen cock into my throat while I gagged and choked around it. Mr. Aldine's fingers working me into a frenzy, pumping into me until I gushed all over his palm. How my walls had stretched to accommodate the broad head, then the length of that mammoth piece of flesh between his legs.
I'd had these exact same thoughts about a dozen times since I woke up this morning, feeling sore and exhausted.
Getting up to go to the bathroom had been a chore of its own and I'd given up the idea of going to class when I saw the bruises on my skin.
There were dark, angry marks on my neck, my shoulders, my collarbone and breasts. My hips and ass were the worst, with hand prints so dark and deep it looked like I'd been brutally beaten.
I'd known the second I saw them that Mona wouldn't let me anywhere near my clients if I looked like this.
Goddamn it.
It would take weeks for any of these to heal properly. Which he probably knew, and was definitely relishing the thought, that bastard.
But I didn't mind, honestly.
It would be nice to take a break from all the men who lusted after me, who paid insane amounts of money for the pleasure of lying between my thighs.
My only concern at this point was Mr. Aldine himself. It was obvious, even to a sea creature living under a rock, that the man was bad news.
He was being investigated by the feds for a list of crimes so long it made men like Al Capone look like angels, with murder and smuggling ranking very high.
He was dangerous, and it was always best to avoid bringing attention to yourself with men like that. I should know better, given the internal scars that remained from my experience.
I had no idea who Mr. Aldine actually was, and to look him up on the usual search engines would only pull up information I already knew.
An idea began to form as I picked up my cup from the counter. It had been a few months since I'd gone anywhere near the deep and dark web.
I'd stayed away to keep from attracting attention to myself, because I didn't want or want to be dragged back out into the spotlight or alert anyone of where I was.
After placing my cup down and resuming my seat at the table, my fingers hovered uncertainly above the keyboard. I began to type, slowly at first, and then quicker as I overcame my initial fears.
It was like riding a bicycle. The skills are always there, even when you don't use them often. I worked my way through several security measures and firewalls - cursing the inadequate laptop I had - to dig deep enough to land myself in the dark web.
