Page 16 of Bloodlust

But his house was always clean.

At least on the surface.

Everyone has a junk drawer.

"Let's find yours," I hum to myself, taking a sip of straight vodka as I flip through the dossier Zoey compiled on Judge Keegan.

From the looks of it, Fred Keegan is a stand-up citizen turned public servant. Grew up in the suburbs of Maine. Finished high school with a clean record. Went to law school. Worked for an NGO before applying for a judgeship. Married a rather plain-looking first-grade teacher. Has a kid that's three years old and one still being cooked.

Bo-ring.

This is all shit I'd be able to find by doing a Google search. I purse my lips, frowning as I flip to my favorite section: Financials.

Show me your junk, Fred.

I scan pages upon pages of financial records, hoping to find something I can use against him. Something that will give me leverage in case he decides to try and make a name for himself.

So far...nothing.

A hefty mortgage. Few lines of credit. Bank accounts that look clean. Groceries, bills, random store receipts. Nothing special. He's clean. Too clean. I slam the rest of my drink. Something's not sitting right with me. I rummage through the papers, looking at monthly debit card transactions. Hmm. This might be something. I pull out my cell phone and call Zoey.

"Hi, Cami, what's up?"

"I'm going through Keegan's financials right now and on the last Wednesday of every month there's an ATM withdrawal of around six hundred dollars," I say, chewing my lip as I double-check each monthly statement. "What's he doing with all that cash?"

"Hmm... I don't know," Zoey says, the sound of a keyboard clacking in the background. "But—" she pauses for a moment, "—all those withdrawals came from the same ATM."

"Really?" I ask, accidentally waking up Pinto as I shift my position on the couch. Shit. I pout, petting between his ears as I mouth, 'sorry baby'. "Where's the ATM located?"

"One sec," she says as I play with Pinto's floppy ears, impatiently waiting for an answer. "Okay, so that particular ATM is on Grand, just off of Essex." She pauses. "Also, it seems that the withdrawals are usually done around the same time. Between 10 p.m. and 11 p.m."

I frown. "What's a family man who lives an hour outside Manhattan doing hanging around the Lower East Side that late at night?"

"Nothing good, I'm guessing," Zoey says. "But you can find out."

I raise a brow. "How?"

"It's the last Wednesday of the month, Cami," she says. Is it? I check the time and date on my computer. Oh shit. "And it's almost 10 p.m."

"I knew that," I say, pushing myself off the couch. "Guess I'm going on a little trip." I glance back at the documents on the coffee table. "While I'm out..." I bite my lip, unsure why the desire to know more about the man is settling in my gut. "I need you to compile another brief for me."

"On who?"

I shouldn't care. I know that. But I can't shake the feeling of pure curiosity.

"On Dr. Hayden Malcolm," I say, heading to my room to change. "Everything you can find."

"Dr. Malcolm?" Zoey asks, confused. "The therapist? Why?"

"Do I need a reason?" I snap.

"I'm just wondering?—"

"I don't pay you to wonder, Zoella," I say. "I pay you to work."

"Okay," Zoey whispers, clearly upset as I end the call.

She's so sensitive. It's a liability in our world. The blood running through her veins is kind, soft, and innocent. But one day, it'll turn to stone. Ice. It'll be glacial. She'll cry for a few days or months—I did—but then she'll embrace the cold. She'll finally stop crying.