Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha

After I explain everything, Penelope does her best to convince me to stay at her place. I shrug off her concerns, telling her to go to work and act like everything’s normal.

She’s not thrilled, but by five I’m alone with a stack of papers and a mystery.

A text from Scott tells me I’m supposed to be at work on time tomorrow. No problem. Already planned on that.

It’s terse and to the point. From anyone else, it would be a simple professional message. From Scott? He’s probably upset I walked out on him. fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm

Seriously need to consider getting a different job.

I pour myself a generous glass of Merlot, the rich aroma wafting up as the deep red liquid swirls in the glass. Grabbing a bag of pretzels from the pantry, I settle on the floor in front of my couch, spreading the printouts across the coffee table. The familiar crinkle of the pretzel bag provides a comforting background noise as I flip open my notebook, pen poised to jot down my findings.

"Alright, let’s see what we’ve got here."

I take a sip of wine, savoring the bold flavor as I scan the first set of documents.

Scott’s name jumps out at me from multiple pages. Consultant. Phone conversations. Itemized estimate provided. All from Scott.

I scribble down the dates, connecting them with arrows to the corresponding service requests.

"What the hell were you up to, Scott?"

The pretzel I pop into my mouth turns to sawdust as I see another unsettling coincidence. Each account has been paid for with a bank number in the same last four digits.

What are the odds? Pretty astronomical, I’d say.

The irregularities are so obvious that it’s hard to fathom why the SED would even think these are legitimate accounts. It definitely doesn’t explain how Logan would trust a single word coming out of Scott’s mouth about our relationship.

Has the SED even seen these files?

Logan didn’t specify what they knew.

Who died recently? It should be in the news, right?

I pause, pinching the bridge of my nose. Stupid. The news should have been the first thing I looked at.

This is why I’m a consultant for anti-magic security and not an investigator of massive crimes.

I grab my laptop, balancing it precariously on my knees as I settle back against the couch. The wine glass teeters dangerously close to the edge of the coffee table, and I nudge it back with my foot. The soft glow of the screen illuminates my face as I pull up a search engine.

"Alright, let’s see what we’ve got here."

My fingers fly across the keyboard with various search terms. The results load quickly, but as I scan through them, my heart sinks. Nothing. Not a single headline or article that matches what I’m looking for.

"Come on, there’s got to be something," I mutter, reaching for my wine glass and taking a long sip.

I turn to the files spread out on the coffee table, picking up the first one and squinting at the name. "Marcus Holloway," I read aloud, then type it into the search bar along with "obituary."

The results load, but it’s just a sea of unrelated Marcus Holloways. None of them match the description in the file, and none of them are recently deceased.

"What the hell?"

I try the next name. "Allison Tyler." Again, nothing. No obituaries, no news articles, not even a social media profile that matches.

My frustration mounts as I go through each name in the files. It’s like these people don’t exist. But that can’t be right. Mr. Fernsby had implied he’d seen the bodies himself. He’d spoken about them as if they were real, flesh and blood people who had died tragic deaths.

I scratch at my hair, my fingers tangling in the strands as I try to make sense of it all. "This doesn’t add up."

Leaning back, I stare at the ceiling, as if it might hold the answers I’m seeking. The wine buzzes pleasantly in my system, but it does nothing to dull the sharp edge of confusion.

"Okay, Nicole, think," I tell myself, closing my eyes. "What are you missing?"

I replay my conversation with Mr. Fernsby in my mind. He’d been so sure, so convinced of the deaths. And yet, there’s no trace of these people online.

Not having a car is already grating on me; I want to go out, to look at the homes in person. To see what’s going on with their security wards. Are they really ours?

Not to mention, I’d personally reached out to all clients with services rendered this year—not a small feat by any means. Between phone calls, texts, and e-mails, they’d responded. Why were these names not on the client list?

Of course, that list is back at the office. Damn. I should have grabbed it on the way out.

Wait a second.

All of my clients had responded. Several had answered their phones. A few had returned voice mails. And many responded through text and e-mail.

What company gets a 100% response rate from their clients?

"You fucking dumbass." Leaning my head back against the couch cushions, I groan at the ceiling. "He must have thought I was such an idiot." Remembering how assertive I was in insisting to Mr. Fernsby none of our clients were missing in a macabre manner, I cringe.

I should be thankful he didn’t laugh in my face.

Okay. So, some of my client responses are probably fake. Our records are strange and possibly falsified. My ex’s name is all over these files—I haven’t even let my mind dwell on that too much, because if I find out he’s involved in this bullshit, I might actually vomit.

This is all so far beyond my pay grade. I should probably give Logan all the information I have, but I don’t have his number...

And I really don’t know who I can trust at this point.

Dead bodies that don’t exist. Clients that don’t exist. Weird creatures attacking me on the mountain. My ex-fiancé all over records that don’t exist. What the hell is going on?

I’m more confused than ever.

The shrill ring of my phone cuts through the silence, making me jump. My heart races as I fumble for it, nearly knocking over my wine glass in the process. Penelope’s name flashes on the screen, and I answer with a mix of relief and curiosity.

"Hey, Pippa. What’s up?"

The quality of the call is punctuated by loud voices and bass-rich music about taking your clothes off. Right. The bar’s probably crazy busy at this time of night.

"Nicole!" Penelope’s voice rings out, triumphant and slightly breathless. "I know why McSexy’s been MIA!"

"What do you mean?" I ask, my voice carefully neutral. I refuse to let her hear how much I care about this information. For someone all up in arms about his morals, I’m just a little bit butthurt he didn’t check on me once while I was recovering.

Which makes no sense, since I’m the one who slammed the door in his face. But still. He cared enough to save my life and then ghosted me? After being the jerk who rejected me?

Wait—am I acting like Scott? Damn. I think I am.

"So, get this," Penelope says, her words slightly slurred. I can picture her leaning against the bar, one hand cupped around her mouth as she speaks into the phone. "I made friends with a guy from SED. Typical vamp. We have a date for coffee on Tuesday."

"Okay...?"

"Logan’s been locked up. Requested to be put in a cell after he gave some doctor a black eye."