Chapter 67 68
ELIAS POV
The moment I stepped out of that godforsaken apartment complex, I yanked my phone from my pocket like it owed me answers. My hands were shaking — not from fear, no, but from the fucking nerve of it all.
"Fuck!" I growled, nearly hurling the phone into the nearest trash bin. That old lady—Tita something—had wasted ten full minutes of my life yapping about telenovelas and cheap powdered milk while pretending she didn’t know Krystal.
“She hasn’t lived here for a long time, hijo. Try the barang—try the other block. Maybe she moved. Ay, but she was such a polite girl.”
Bullshit. That was the address. That was her blood. I saw it. I felt the knife when it sunk in. She was dead, dammit. She had to be. I made sure of it.
Unless…
I stabbed at my phone screen and scrolled furiously until I found Marcus — a PI I had on retainer for less-than-legal purposes. He’d been useful before. He better be now.
He picked up after three rings.
“Yo,” came his lazy drawl. “What you need, Eli—"
“Don’t call me that right now,” I barked. “I need you to do something immediately. Drop whatever the hell you’re doing.”
A beat. Then Marcus snapped to attention, voice sharper. “Alright. Shoot.”
“I need you to look for someone. Krystal McLaren. Early tweenties. Medium height. Long dark hair. Scar under her left eyebrow. Probably using a new identity. I want records. Photos. Hidden addresses. Surveillance footage. Traffic cams. Birth certificates. Death reports. ANYTHING.”
He paused. “Wait—death reports?”
“I said anything, Marcus!” I hissed into the phone as I paced toward my parked Jaguar, ignoring the curious glances of two old men smoking cigarettes outside a bakery. “She might be dead. Or not. I need to know. Someone’s been messing with me, with my bank, my files—my fucking life. And it all started when that little cockroach disappeared.”
“You think she’s alive?” Marcus asked slowly, like he was chewing on the implications.
“I don’t know,” I muttered, dragging a hand through my hair. “But she’s a cockroach. Those don’t die easy.”
I slid into my car, slamming the door shut behind me. Then, on impulse, I switched lines and called Norma.
Of all people.
She answered with her usual clipped tone. “I’m at the spa, Elias. If this is about the yacht, I already told you—”
“I think Krystal might be alive,” I blurted.
Silence. Then, laughter. Cold. Sharp. “Excuse me?”
“I’m serious. I went to her apartment. Something’s off. The neighbors said she moved. But it was weird, too neat. Like someone knew I’d come.”
“Are you losing your mind?” she snapped. “You told me you stabbed her. You called me that night drunk off your ass, crying into the phone like some pathetic boy, talking about how she ruined you and you ended it.”
“I know what I did!” I snapped. “But maybe… maybe she didn’t die.”
“You’re paranoid. Maybe you should be. With what you did.”
“She had that goddamn ticket. You remember that? She swallowed it. What if she survived? What if she found a way to cash it out?” I ran my hands down my face. “What if this whole thing is her revenge?”
Norma let out a breath. “Elias… if she’s alive, and you’re right… we’re both fucked.”
I stared out the windshield, heart thudding.
She was right.
This was bigger than guilt.
This was survival.
And if Krystal was alive?
Then I had to find her.
Before she found me.
KRYSTAL POV
"Did you record those calls, Tomas?"
I didn’t even need to look up from my laptop to know his answer.
"Of course I did," he replied coolly, leaning on the kitchen counter with a mug of black coffee that had long gone cold. "And not just that. The PI he contacted? Sloppy. Used his real alias. I've already tapped his phone, fed him three versions of your ‘last known address,’ all strategically planted near high-level debtors, former clients, and a very irate sugar baby who thinks Elias gave her herpes."
I chuckled. A low, delicious sound that rose from somewhere between satisfaction and hunger.
"Good," I whispered, letting the word roll off my tongue like silk laced with arsenic.
Tomas gave me a quick glance. "Want me to send some heavier noise? Fake sighting in Mindoro? Maybe tell Norma a random woman dropped a bloody scarf on their doorstep?"
"Not yet." I turned in my chair slowly, the dim lamplight casting soft shadows on the wall of corkboards behind me. All littered with pictures, threads, red ink, digital screens. McLAREN FAMILY DAMAGE TIMELINE was scrawled on the center in sharp marker.
"Elias needs to stew. Let him sweat. Let him question reality," I said. My smirk stretched wider. “Let him whisper in his sleep and keep a gun under his pillow.”
"But what about the kids?" Tomas asked, already scrolling through a second laptop, pulling up social media tabs, private messages, screenshots of Venice’s latest Instagram stories.
"Ah, yes. The prodigal McLaren brats," I said softly, tapping my finger against the side of my glass. “Venice first. She's already teetering. Her last post was an image of a broken mirror and a cryptic quote about betrayal. Perfect.”
Tomas whistled. "She’s spiraling. I found out her therapist canceled their last session. Something about unpaid dues. Guess who rerouted her bank auto-pay?"
"You’re cruel," I murmured fondly.
"You’re worse."
We both grinned.
"Send her anonymous texts," I said. "From a hidden number. Little things. Like: ‘He knew about the blood, Venice.’ Or ‘You’ve always been second, even to a corpse.’ Random enough to be paranoia. Specific enough to feel real.”
"Done." Tomas typed away. "What about her medication deliveries?"
"Let’s make them arrive one week late. Just once. Then resume on time. Let her think it was her fault. Or someone close to her."
"Text messages between her and MJ?"
"Already altered," I said, pulling up the side monitor. “Look. She thinks MJ unfollowed her and posted that dig about ‘ungrateful sisters.’ In reality, it was a private birthday post from three years ago. We made it look like it happened today.”
"You’re so good at this it’s a little scary."
I sipped my wine and smiled. "Let’s move to Era. The golden child. The influencer. Miss ‘I am not like them.’”
Tomas snorted. “Should we tell her that her boyfriend has been sliding into DMs of several low-tier models under a fake account?"
"Eventually. But first, I want her to question him. Let’s have one of the girls casually mention something to Era in a club. Whisper a rumor. Tag the wrong account. Let her feel it in public.”
“Then when she confronts him, he’ll have no idea what she’s talking about.”
"Exactly." I tilted my head. “What’s his name again?”
“Reed. The fitness coach-slash-crypto bro.”
"Ugh. Even worse than I remember."
"Should I hack his gym’s site? Schedule him for fake classes at midnight?"
"No. Let’s do worse. Let’s hack his calendar and insert fake dinners with Era’s college friends. Then let him miss the real ones. Let her think he’s avoiding them."
"Brilliant."
"And his crypto wallet?"
Tomas raised a brow.
"I want it drained and then refunded. Just once. Enough for him to freak out, scream, blame someone, then magically it returns. Make it look like a bug."
“Genius.”
I stood and walked over to the wall of files and photos. My finger dragged down a picture of the four McLaren kids at some gala years ago. Smiling. Gold-plated lives. Not a scratch on them.
But cracks were forming now.
Little tremors, each one perfectly placed.
And behind all of it — me.
"I'm not just coming back," I said, voice like fire beneath ice. "I'm dismantling them. One illusion at a time."
Tomas nodded solemnly. “You’re not the ghost in the past anymore.”
"No,” I said, staring at Venice’s tear-streaked selfie beside a hotel lobby geotag. “I’m the storm in their present.”