Page 14 of Distress Signal
Lane rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth tipped up slightly.
Until Crew stole his thunder.
“Actually, my girl solved that case,” Crew piped in.
Lane flipped Crew off.
“C’mon, fuckers. Let’s get this show on the road.”
four
. . .
REAGAN
“I feel awful.”
“You look it too,” Lainey said, grinning at me.
Rolling my eyes, then wincing as the movement aggravated the headache I’d been unable to shake for the last three days, I pinned her with a look. “You’re an asshole.”
“You love me.”
When I grumbled noncommittally, Lainey threw one of the pillows from our couch at my head.
“I meant about the trip,” I explained. “You know it’s my turn.”
She gestured to me, where I was curled into the fetal position on one side of our sectional, dressed in sweats and layered with blankets to ward off the chills that had plagued me as long as the headache. “You’re on your deathbed, Rea. You’re hardly in a position to fly across the country.”
“It’s just the flu,” I protested, albeit weakly.
The truth was, I hadn’t been this sick in a long time. The up and down fever, the body aches, headache, and occasional bouts of nausea and vomiting had sapped all of my energy. For the last several days, I’d barely been able to shuffle between my bed and the couch.
As much as I hated to admit it, she was right.
After graduating college nearly seven years ago, Lainey and I had startedour own photography business. Though it had taken a few years, we’d built a large social media following. Thanks to our online popularity, we frequently fielded inquiries about jobs across the country. Long ago, my twin and I had come to the agreement that we would alternate who took the trips. Our styles were similar enough that we’d never encountered an instance where a client preferred one of us over the other.
We were simply Twin Flames Photography, the facesbehindthe cameras.
“Are you sure it’s even a good idea foryouto go, though? You know, since you-know-who…”
I trailed off. Lainey knew who I was talking about. In fact,Ididn’t even know the guy’s name. When we’d come back from our spring break trip to Idaho seven years ago, Lainey had brought a stalker with her.
Maybe stalker was the wrong word. As far as we knew, the guy had never come to our small town in eastern Tennessee. But for six and a half years, he’d refused to leave Lainey alone digitally. He would call and text at all hours of the night. Lainey would block him, but he’d reappear with a new number in days. He’d also harassed us both on our business and personal social media profiles.
Begging Lainey to come back. Asking her to give them a chance. Reminding her what a good time they’d had together that night in Dusk Valley.
Over the years, I’d pleaded with her to go to the police, especially after he threatened to leak some naked pictures he’d taken of her while she slept that night.
But she hadn’t, claiming he’d eventually get bored and find someone else to bother.
“Besides, I’m hot as fuck. Having my nudes leaked would hardly ruin me,”she’d said once.
That was Lainey—irreverent as hell, almost to a fault sometimes.
About six months ago, though, her prediction had come true, and she hadn’t heard from the creep since.
Still, sending her back to that place alone was difficult, knowing he was likely still around.
