Chapter 22

Mira’s POV

“What the fuck am I getting myself into, Zara?”

I had been explaining the entire situation to my best friend for over an hour while sitting in Alejandro’s car, mentally revisiting every questionable decision that had brought me here.

“Don’t worry, Mira. I’m here for you. We’ll get to the bottom of this,” she assured me.

Her words calmed me a little, even though I knew that the second I ended this call, I’d be tailing a man who might actually be innocent.

Not that I don’t trust Alejandro. I do.

God, that was still uncomfortable to admit. I never imagined I’d say I trust that scumbag. This town really does something to your brain.

“How far are you from the airport?” Zara asked, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts.

My brows furrowed. Why was she asking that?

“Like thirty minutes.”

She giggled through the phone. “Step on it. I’m at the airport. Come get me.”

My eyes widened. “You’re at the what?”

“Airport, bitch. Hurry up before I get murdered too,” she teased before hanging up.

I stared at my phone for a second, then shook myself out of it, started the engine, reversed out of the driveway, and sped off.

I had been parked at that supermarket for an hour because I saw Ace walk in and hoped he’d do something suspicious. Instead, I saw absolutely nothing.

I swear these two men were playing me. After this, I was done.

I’d find another job or better yet, go back to my old life in a new club far away from this town where nobody knew me. At least that would help pay for this deteriorating health I never signed up for.

Within minutes, I reached the airport, silently praying this wasn’t one of Zara’s twisted jokes because I would actually kill her.

Then Alejandro and I’s imaginary future kids would have ex-convicts for parents.

“You’re so stupid, Mira.” I face-palmed, realizing I was planning a whole future in my head like a delusional idiot.

“Yes, you are.” Zara’s voice rang out as she dragged her box of clothes toward me.

Without thinking, I threw myself at her, hugging her so tightly we both struggled to breathe.

“Back off, Mira,” she laughed. “You’re trying to end me.”

I released her and waited for her to breathe properly before firing questions.

“Okay, you’re here. Why? And why did I have zero warning?” I folded my arms, eyeing her tiny frame.

She hadn’t changed. Still toddler-sized, still rocking those bangs that framed her freckled face perfectly.

“You think I’d let you have all the fun?” she shot back, nudging me. “Assistant detective Zara Johnson reporting for duty, ma’am.”

I laughed so hard my lungs nearly gave out.

We got into the car and drove off while she interrogated me about everything that had happened since I stepped into Alejandro’s mansion.

“First, we’re going back to that supermarket where his car is parked,” she decided.

“I’ve been there all day. The man’s just living his life, Zara.”

She frowned. “Think about it. What rich guy parks at a supermarket for hours? Then you see his car but not him? We’re going inside.”

Annoyingly, she had a point.

Ace lacked nothing. The hotel provided everything. I saw him earlier, yes, but after that he vanished.

“You watch too many movies,” I muttered as we parked farther from his car and stepped out.

Even so, my heart thudded as we walked toward the entrance.

The automatic doors slid open and cold air rushed over me. We grabbed a random basket to look normal and pretended to study the snack aisle.

“Where did you last see him?” Zara whispered.

“Near the dairy section.”

We moved slowly, trying not to look like two idiots hunting prey in a grocery store.

Then we spotted him.

Ace stood near the back exit, talking to a man I’d never seen before. The guy wore a cap pulled low and a dark jacket despite the heat. Suspicious much?

They weren’t chatting. More like they were arguing.

Ace’s jaw was tight, his hands slicing through the air as he spoke. The other man shook his head and stepped closer.

“What do you think they’re saying?” Zara murmured.

“No idea, but it’s definitely not friendly.”

We edged closer, pretending to compare cereal boxes, but they were too near the exit. We couldn’t hear a thing.

Suddenly, Ace dragged a hand through his hair in frustration. The other man shoved something small into his palm before storming out the back.

My stomach flipped.

“Did you see that?” Zara breathed.

“I did.”

Ace glanced around, slipped whatever it was into his pocket, and exited through the same door.

Zara gripped my wrist. “We’re tailing him.”

“Oh my God,” I muttered, already moving.

We hurried out, keeping our distance. He got into his car and drove off.

“Start the engine,” Zara urged.

“I know how to drive, detective,” I shot back, even though my hands were shaking as I followed him.

He drove for about fifteen minutes, leaving the busy streets for an industrial part of town filled with warehouses and empty roads. Barely any traffic.

“Why is he here?” I whispered.

Ace finally stopped near a large dumpster behind what looked like an abandoned building.

We parked far enough away not to be obvious.

He stepped out, scanned the area, then opened his trunk and pulled out a black garbage bag.

My breath stalled.

“This is it,” Zara whispered dramatically.

He tossed the bag into the dumpster, slammed the trunk, and drove off like it was nothing.

We waited a full minute.

“Go,” Zara said, already unbuckling her seatbelt.

We ran toward the dumpster like two raccoons with ambition.

“This is insane,” I muttered as she climbed onto a crate to peek inside.

“Stop whining and help.”

I joined her reluctantly, holding my breath as she dragged the black bag out and dropped it to the ground.

She ripped it open.

We leaned in.

And froze.

Inside were dozens of handmade dolls.

Not cute ones.

Disturbing ones.

Each looked stitched from random fabric scraps. Some had button eyes. Others had uneven yarn hair. A few wore tiny embroidered smiles that were more creepy than charming.

There were miniature outfits too. Tiny suits. Tiny dresses. Even tiny shoes.

“What the hell…” I murmured.

Zara lifted one. “Why does this look like him?”

I squinted.

The doll had slicked-back black yarn hair and a small stitched scar above its eyebrow.

“Oh my God. Is he making dolls of himself?”

We stared at the pile.

At least twenty. Some random. One looked suspiciously like Alejandro. Another looked like… me.

Zara burst into uncontrollable laughter.

“No way. The dark, mysterious Ace spends his free time sewing creepy dolls?”

I tried to stay serious, but picturing him carefully stitching button eyes broke me. I started laughing too.

“Imagine him at night,” Zara wheezed. “‘No one understands me. Only my dolls.’”

I clutched my stomach, tears forming. For a brief second, all the tension disappeared.

“This is both terrifying and hilarious,” I managed.

Zara wiped her eyes. “As funny as this is, it’s not proof of murder.”

“Sadly.”

She exhaled. “Help me check properly before we give up.”

We rummaged again, digging deeper. Beneath the dolls were fabric scraps, loose threads, and pieces of old clothing cut apart.

“Maybe he’s just… artistic?” I offered weakly.

“Artistic with serial killer energy,” she corrected.

We were about to close the bag when Zara suddenly stilled.

“Wait.”

“What?”

She reached further in, pushing aside scraps. Her expression shifted from amusement to confusion.

Slowly, she pulled out a small white handkerchief.

My heart dropped.

Dark brown stains marked the fabric.

Even in the dim light, I knew exactly what that color meant.

Blood.

Zara’s laughter died instantly.

“Mira…” she whispered.

The air felt heavier.

“This isn’t doll paint,” she said quietly.

I swallowed, staring at the stained cloth trembling in her hand.

And just like that, nothing about this was funny anymore.