Page 60 of Craving Venom

How many dreams ended in these pages? How many futures were rewritten in the worst way possible?

I brush my fingers over a picture of a girl, barely older than me. Her face is frozen in time. She had plans. People who loved her. Maybe she had a cat. A favorite song. A shitty coffee order she insisted was so good even though it wasn’t. And now she’s just a file in a room no one cares about.

I shut the folder and sigh.

I move to the computer in the corner and I type in the one name that matters right now.

Zane Valehart.

Nothing.

I try again. First name. Last name. Full name.

Still nothing.

I grind my teeth. Guess I have to do this the hard way.

I push away from the computer and move to the rows of boxes stacked high, each labeled with years and case types.

It’s hell.

Three hours in, and I swear my fingers are covered in a layer of dust so thick it could be carbon dated. I go through file after file, names blurring together, my back aching from bending over box after box.

A sharp knock on the door makes me jerk, nearly dropping the file in my hands.

Blondie leans against the doorway. “We’re closing in an hour.”

I glance at the time. Shit.

I push to my feet. “Can I get just a little more time?”

She stares at me. “We close in an hour.”

I press my hands together in a prayer-like gesture. “Please. I just need ten more minutes.”

“Fine. Ten minutes. If you’re not out by then, I’m dragging you out myself.”

I flash her a grateful smile before diving back into the files, flipping through pages faster now.

But it doesn’t fucking matter.

Ten minutes fly by, and I find nothing.

Blondie steps inside this time. “Time’s up.”

Fuck.

I stare at the stack of files, but there’s no arguing with her.

“Yeah,” I mutter, snapping a box closed. “Got it.”

I shove it back onto the shelf, stand up, and turn when a dull thud echoes through the silent room. My muscles lock up and a strange prickle runs down my spine as I slowly turn backtoward the source. My breath hitches as my eyes land on a single file that has slipped from the crowded shelf, lying haphazardly on the floor. The cover is slightly ajar, just enough for a single photograph to slide free

Zane’s mugshot.

He looks younger, but those sharp eyes are the same, burning through the paper with a warning stitched in every line.

I straighten, gripping it tighter, and turn to Blondie. “I need to borrow this.”

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