Page 48 of Ruin My Life
I twist my key in the lock and push the door open.
Lee’s exactly where we left him—hunched over his monitor, posture shot to hell, fingers dancing across the keyboard like he’s trying to hack time itself.
He glances up when we step in, eyes bruised with purplish smudges left behind by stress. He tries to rub them away, like that ever works.
“Any luck?” he asks.
I lean against the edge of the desk, arms crossed. “Was about to ask you the same. But judging by your face, I’ve got my answer.”
Lee exhales through his nose. “Found pieces. Nothing solid yet.” He clicks a few keys, a few windows closing on-screen. “She grew up in Staten Island. Dad was some mid-tier movie director while her mom ran a charity for nature conservation. They had money—nice house, private school. A quiet life. Until six months ago.”
Six months.
“What happened six months ago?” I ask, though I already know I won’t like the answer.
“Her parents were killed in a home invasion.”
My jaw tightens.
That lines up.
Suddenly, this isn’t just a hacker-for-hire problem. This is something deeper. Grief that turned to obsession. The kind of grief that rewires a person.
“She thinks the Songbirds were involved,” I murmur. “That’s why she’s hunting them.”
Lee nods. “Makes sense. Cops opened the investigation, then closed it just as fast. Went cold after a month.”
Someone killed her family. And I’d bet my life it was the same two masked men she posted about on that underground forum—the ones she’s been chasing like ghosts.
This isn’t about me.
Not yet.
She’s not just scraping data for cash. She’s clawing for answers. For justice. And someone likely promised her those answers in exchange for information on me.
But who the hell has enough insider knowledge to know who she is, what she’s capable of—and still be bold enough to send her afterme?
I’ve made enemies. Plenty. But they all fall into one of two categories: the Songbirds—who know better than to breathe near me. And the rich bastards I’ve exposed through King’s Eye—who are too detached from reality to get their own hands dirty.
Two worlds that almost never cross.
Unless someone’s playing both.
“It’s a reach,” I mutter aloud, “but I can’t rule out that one of O’Doyle’s people went rogue. Some of his guys have crossed my lines before.”
“Maybe they hired The Black Rose to take you out,” Lee suggests, his tired eyes flicking to me. “Smart enough to know they can’t touch you themselves.”
I nod slowly, letting the theory settle.
It’s plausible. But something still doesn’t fit.
“She’s not the type to kill for someone else,” I say. “That forum post?‘Information for information.’She’s bartering. Not following orders. The kills are personal. Pre-planned.”
Lee’s quiet a moment, just staring at me.
“You admire her,” he finally says.
I don’t answer.
