View Full Version : Dance With the Devil, Chapter 6

August 20th, 2010, 02:27 PM
When we hit FBI headquarters, Ryan dragged me down a hall to the office of the Assistant Director of the FBI, Kyle Chaytor. He was hunched over his desk, typing away on a laptop.

“Chaytor, you'll never frickin' guess.”

“You've done some work for once?” Kyle asked, looking up from the computer.

Kyle Chaytor was about twenty six, tall, and, heavy set, to say the least. I didn't know him very well, seeing as I was an independent contractor and didn't work very often with the FBI, but from what I knew, he was pleasant enough to be around.

Ryan rolled his eyes. “I always do work, Chaytor.”

“Agent Carr, do we need to have the 'respect talk' again?” Kyle said, raising and eyebrow before returning to the computer. I stifled a laugh.

“Look, Kyle. I know what kind of saw decapitated Hadley, Nichlson, and Tacolini.”

This got his attention. He looked up from the laptop again.

“How do you know?”

Ryan smiled over at me, “Well, thanks to local genius Katelyn Amos, of course.”

Kyle looked at me. “You're serious? You found what saw killed him?”

“Well, not the actual saw, per se, but the type used, sir.” I nodded.

“Call me Kyle,” He began. I nodded, “So what was it? Handsaw? Band saw? Hacksaw?”

“Hand-held reciprocating saw.”

Kyle nodded. “Is there any way we can figure out exactly which saw was used to dismember the vics?”

I shrugged. “You probably could. I could make a mold of the striae in the bone and you could try and match it to any commercial reciprocating saw.”

He nodded again. “I'll get Agent Keller to get all of the reciprocating saws he can get his hands on,” He said, returning to his computer screen, “In the meantime, Agent Carr, I want you to search the Tacolini home, find out what got him killed.”

Ryan nodded and looked at me, “How about Dr. Amos, here?” He asked, “Can she accompany me?” Kyle didn't look up.

“That's up to her.”

I looked to Ryan. He pouted his lip at me. It was annoyingly adorable.


Pablo Tacolini lived in a shabby apartment building relatively close to Oshawa's downtown. Short drive, not even fifteen minutes away. I looked at Ryan.

“What exactly are we looking for?”

His eyes moved from the road to my face. “Anything that will tell me why Tacolini was killed,” He began, “Crime Scene units were already there and processed the scene. We're looking for anything; notes, phone numbers, addresses, anything that will lead us to anyone or anything.”

I nodded. The drive continued in a nice quiet. I saw Ryan look over at me occasionally and smile. We pulled onto an ugly street, lines with small, shabby apartments.

“Nice place.” Ryan muttered.

“Yeah, really.”

We pulled up in front of the smallest apartment on the block. Like most of the cheap apartments in Oshawa, this one had a cheap paint job. Chipped pink colour lined the outside siding. Cheap, dirty windows with equally dirty screens decorated the outside walls. Ryan walked up the brick walkway to the door and knocked. I stood behind him and waited.

He stood there for about two minutes before knocking again. Finally, a tall, skinny man who looked about forty opened the door. His lanky arm moves to his head to brush dirty hair from his blue eyes. Ryan cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, sir. I'm Special Agent Ryan Carr of the FBI. This here is my partner, Dr. Katelyn Amos,” He began, flashing his badge at the man, “You've been informed by the authorities about your tenant Mr. Pablo Tacolini's death, right?”

The tall man nodded. “That Mexican guy, right?” His voice was scratchy and throaty.

Ryan nodded, “Yes sir. We're here to take a look at Pablo's apartment, see if there's anything to suggest why he was killed. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions, first?”

The man shrugged. I stared. He gestured for us to follow. Ryan stepped to the side, allowing me to pass first. I felt his hand on the small of my back. The man led us into a small, cramped lobby with two cheap, leather couches. Ryan and I sat across from our boy. Ryan pulled out a note pad.

“Sir, can I get your name?”

“Name's George Whitney. I'm the landlord.” He muttered. Ryan scribbled on the notepad.

“How long had Mr. Tacolini been living here?”

Whitney pondered that. Blue eyes flew to the ceiling, “'Bout four months, maybe? I 'member he asked for the biggest apartment in the building.”

I looked up. “Did he say why he needed it?” I asked. Whitney shook his head.

“Never did. Kinda creepy, he was.”

Ryan nodded. “How well did you know Tacolini?” He asked, glancing up from the notebook.

“Didn't know him too good. Kept to himself. Think I only talked to him two or three times.”

“So you weren't close? He didn't tell you if her was in trouble or anything?” I piped up. Whitney hook his head.

“Did Pablo pay his rent on time? Did he ever have problems getting the money?” Ryan.

“Nah, guy always brought the cash on time. Never had no problems with him.”

I looked to Ryan. Time to do a search. He nodded.

“Thank you for your time an co-operation, Mr. Whitney. We'd like to search Tacolini's room. Could we borrow the key?”

Whitney nodded and fumbled for a set of keys, pulling out a small, rusty, gold one. He handed it to Ryan.

“Down the hall. Third room.” Ryan nodded, and offered me his hand. I took it and he pulled me to my feet.

We started down the hallway of the cramped apartment and stopped at an oak door with the number 3 printed on it in heavy black ink. Ryan inserted the key into the door and pushed it open. The room was quiet. I could see little evidence markers before I even stepped in the premises.

Ryan stepped through the door and walked carefully into the apartment, being sure not to step on the yellow evidence tags. I followed.

The scene in front of me told the story. The infamous line of chalk outlined where Tacolini's body had fallen. Pools of blood lay upon the hardwood floor, heaviest in the area where the head had been removed. Splatter lined one white wall in front of me. I looked around and thought.

It seemed as though Pablo Tacolini had still been alive when he was decapitated. That would explain the heavy blood loss.

Ryan gestured for me to follow him deeper into the apartment. I complied, stepping over blood and chalk. We padded into the living room. It was fairly small, but impeccably clean. A book shelf was pushed against the east wall, filled with books of all sorts. I pulled on latex gloves and pulled out a title. To Kill A Mockingbird. I remembered Tacolini's interrogation. I scanned a few other paperbacks. Nothing relatively interesting. '1984', 'Deja Dead', 'A Clockwork Orange'.

“Katelyn,” I heard Ryan call. I looked over. He was holding up a clear plastic baggy.

“What is it?” I walked over. He shrugged. “

“I don't know yet. I found it in his desk.” He handed it to me. I opened it slowly. Inside was a fine, white powder. I showed to to Ryan.

“Cocaine?” I asked. He stuck a finger in the back, pulled some of the powder out, placed the stuff in his mouth.

“Ryan! God, don't do that!”

He swabbed the finger around his mouth for a few seconds more before nodding at me.

“Coke. Pure.” He said solemnly. I raised and eyebrow.

“I don't even want to know how you know that.”

Ryan grinned at me. We moved from the living room to the kitchen. Ryan walked over to the beaten up fridge and glanced at it. I did the same. Newspaper articles plastered the plastic surface.

“Holy shit.” Ryan muttered. My thoughts exactly.

The newspaper articles in front of us were headlines about Remy Hadley and Robert Nichlson. I gently pulled a piece of newsprint from the from the fridge. Ryan did the same. The article I held was a basic summary of the death and what had been found at the scene.

“So much for not knowing her.” Ryan sighed.

Something caught my eye.

“They're all written by the same person.”

Ryan looked at me, “What?”

“Look at the author of the articles. They're all by the same person. A Ms. Olivia Rose.”

Ryan nodded. “Could be he was stalking her.”

I wasn't listening, I had made my way into the bedroom. The same sight as the living room met my eyes. Bed made perfectly, not a single dresser out of place. I felt Ryan walk up behind me.

“Anything?” Breath on my neck. I shivered and shook my head.

“I don't see-” He gently pushed past me and into the room, crouching down by the bed.

“What?” I asked. Ryan brought something into my line of vision. A pink thong.

“Someone had a good time in here.” He joked, putting the underwear into an evidence bag, “Can you get DNA off of that?”

I rolled my eyes. “Depends.”

“On?” Humour.

“What Tacolini and his friend were doing.”

Ryan grinned at me, “I already checked the bathroom. I think we're done here.”

I nodded. Ryan led me through the apartment and out into the hallway. As we left the building, I saw George Whitney staring at me. There was something about the blue eyes that was unnerving. I shook the thought from my head and let Ryan lead me out into the car.

There was something not so right going on.

August 20th, 2010, 05:59 PM
As always, your projected imagery is flawless. Damn, I wish I could give you one criticism, but I can't. This chapter is (I hate to say it) perfect.

I read over every word you wrote and could not find one thing out of place. You tightened your writing very well. It's not like I'm LOOKING for problems, but I want to help clean your manuscript and believe me, with this chapter, you don't need any help.

Keep up the great work. You really are approaching "genius" stature as far as writing goes.

August 20th, 2010, 07:58 PM
Now where's chapter seven???

August 20th, 2010, 10:38 PM
I'm lazy and didn't want to create a new thread already. :D

By the time I got home that night, I was completely exhausted. The bone examination and the search had taken a lot out of me. Ryan dropped me off in my parking garage. I slipped out of the car slowly, grabbing my laptop and my messenger bag that held my case files. When I went to shut the door, Ryan grabbed my wrist. My eyes snapped to his face.

“Katie,” he began, clearing his throat. I glared at his little nickname, “Get some sleep tonight, okay? I care about you and I don't want you to be out of it when we're chasing the bad guys.”

I smiled inwardly. On the outside, I smirked, “Chasing the bad guys, huh?”

Ryan grinned. “Yeah. Chasing the bad guys.”

I smiled. “You get some sleep too. Who'll protect me if you're not around?”

“No clue.” Affection.

I sighed, gave myself a moment of thought, and leaned in and kissed Ryan on the cheek. He looked mildly surprised when I pulled back.

“Good night, Ryan. I'll see you tomorrow.”

He nodded. “I'll pick you up.”

I smiled and turned, feeling his eyes on me as I made my way to the elevator. As the steel doors closed behind me, I heard a faint 'good night' from his direction. Minutes later, I pushed my way into the apartment, tired and out of it, but relatively happy. I dropped my things on my couch and made my way to the kitchen. I grabbed an ice cold bottle of water and leaned against my kitchen counter. I sighed. I could feel the beginnings of a head ache coming on.

I popped another Tylenol and headed for the bathroom with every intention to have a long, relaxing soak in the tub. As I started the bath and poured in some bubbles, I started thinking about the search that had taken place a few hours earlier. Questions flew through my mind.

Did this Oliva Rose have a connection to the cases? If so, how? Had Tacolini been stalking her? Who had the pink thong belonged to? What about that George Whitney?

What was going on between Ryan and I?

The thoughts exited my mind as soon and I slipped under the hot water. I sank into the tub and let myself drown out the worries. Baths had always been my saviour. I inhaled the lavender scented bubbles, savoured the warmth of the water. Yes, baths were good.

I finally got out when I started to drift off. I wasn't too keen on drowning just yet. I rubbed myself dry with a towel before throwing on my warmest pyjama bottoms and an old, ratty tee shirt. The nightly routine came next. Brush hair, wash face, brush teeth, put on moisturizer. By the time I slid beneath the warm covers of my bed, it was almost midnight.

Sleep didn't come easily that night. When it did, it came in fitful bouts, rolling over and thrashing. I couldn't get images of all three dead bodies from my mind. I couldn't get the questions to leave my brain alone. I couldn't stop thinking about Ryan. The deep sleep I'd wished for didn't come until three in the morning.
I awake in my room. There is no furniture, no bed. Nothing. I am on the floor. I crane my head. It hurts. I look around myself gently. There is red. So much red. I don't know where it is coming from. Chalk outlines my body. I try moving my legs. No movement. Arms are a no go. Even my cranium has stopped responding.

I try to scream. My body goes rigid. No sounds escapes my throat. I try again. I need help!

“Help me!” I scream. Again, nothing. Not a single note leaves my mouth.

Suddenly I hear footsteps. I try to look to the door. Three men stand there, looking down at me. I can't see their faces, they're blurry. I desperately attempt to get their attention. They don't notice. The men step over me like I'm a bump in the road. One starts speaking to the other two. I can't understand them!

One of the men comes right up to me. He leans down to check my pulse. I sneak a glance at his face. It is rough and rigid, his skin the colour of light dirt. He is Pablo Tacolini. I almost gasp, but then realize that I can't. Tacolini stands up and speaks to the other two men. Another comes over to stare at me.

It's Ryan! Ryan! Ryan you need to help me! I'm can't move, I'm stuck! Ryan, help! I try again to scream. No sound will leave my mouth. I can feel a sob starting in my chest. I close my eyes and open them again. When I do, Ryan's head is gone. So are the other two's heads. I scream for the fourth time.

Sound! I'm making noise! I feel function return to my legs, and I roll to my side. The headless men do nothing. I stumble in my room towards the mirror. What I see almost deserves a double take. The reflection staring back at me is not me at all, but the headless, bloody corpse of Remy Hadley.
It's true what they say about nightmares. You do wake up in a cold sweat. Your heart does pound out of your chest. But the phone doesn't usually ring.

Gasping, I reached over to my night stand and grabbed my cell, bringing it to my ear.


“What's wrong?” Concern.

“Nothing, Ryan, I just woke up. Nightmare.” I sighed, letting my heart rate slow back to normal.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. What's up?”

I heard paper rustling over the line. “I went back to the lab after I dropped you off, and I gave the underwear to Rich. He said he'd see if there was DNA, test it, and call me.”


“I just got off the phone with him.”

My heart started beating again. “What did he find?”

“There were two different samples of bodily fluids the material. He tested both. The first belonged to Tacolini, so surprise there, but you'll never guess who the second person was.”

The steady thumping in my ribcage said it wanted to know. “Who?”

“A Ms. Olivia Rose.”

I almost dropped the phone.

“The one that wrote all of the articles?”

“The very same. Was in the system for a prior DUI.” Ryan sighed into the phone. I knew he was excited, but tired.

“So, she'd spent the night with Tacolini, huh?”

“Seems to be that way.”

I tapped my finger on my night table. “I think we need to have a talk with Ms. Rose.”


I sighed. “What time is it?”

I could hear the sheepishness in his voice. “4:50. Sorry for waking you up.”

“It's fine. Have you been up all night?”

“Yeah, I've been at the lab. Well, I'm actually in your office.”

I chuckled. “How did you get a key to my office?”

“I called that ginger you're friends with. Randi or something? I don't know. Anyway, she gave me a key. She's got like, ten of them.” He said. I shook my head, then remembered he couldn't see it.

“Remind me to kill her, please.”

Ryan laughed. “Will do. I'll let you go back to sleep. Be ready to go at nine, Katie.”

“Alright. Oh, the couch in my office pulls out, you know. If you want to get some sleep.”

“Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow.”

After I hung the phone up, I lay back down in my bed. Faint light filtered in through my blinds. Sunrise would be soon. Deciding I wasn't going to get any more sleep, I hopped out of bed and made my way to the shower.

A full hour later, I walked into my kitchen, hair pin straight, fully dressed, and ready for work. I popped open the fridge. Not a pretty sight. I settled for stale bread and peanut butter. A glass of almost sour milk later, I moved to the living room and flipped on the T.V.

News. Shopping Channel. Cartoons. Documentary. More news. Another documentary. I checked the clock. 8:30.

I gathered my files and my laptop, and sat myself on the couch. I pulled out the pictures Recovery had taken of the Tacolini scene.

The front lobby of the apartment building was how I remembered it. Cramped, small. The same two leather couches sat in the middle, but this time George Whitney wasn't sprawled out on one. The next few pictures showed the narrow hallway, the door of the apartment. Then the snapshots changed from eerie to disturbing.

Tacolini's body, headless and bloody. Splatter obnoxiously coated the same wall I'd seen with my own eyes. The chalk outline was missing. Pictures of the book case, the fridge, the bedroom.

I stopped, suddenly. There was something wrong with the photo of the bedroom. Something was missing.

The thong.

I examined the picture more clearly. Perhaps it was just hidden. Maybe I just couldn't see it.

It wasn't there.

I heard a car horn. Ryan. I hopped up, grabbed the pictures, my laptop, and ran outside. I could see Ryan through the windshield. He greeted me as I slid in the car.

“Good morning.”

I didn't respond. I flipped through the pictures and looked for the one of the bedroom.

“Oh, good morning Ryan! It's so good to see you! I've missed you with every passing second of my life!” He answered himself in a mimic of my voice. I slapped his arm.

“What the hell, Katelyn?”

“Ryan, there is something not right in these recovery photos.”

He stopped. “What?”

“The photo of the bedroom,” I said, fumbling for it. I handed it to him, “There's no thong. It's not there.”

“Someone placed it there?”

“That's what it looks like.”

Ryan sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Who else could have put it there?”

“Anyone with a key to the apartment.” I shrugged. We both stopped and looked at each other.

“George Whitney.” Simultaneous revelation.

“Looks like Ms. Rose isn't the only person we need to talk to.”

August 20th, 2010, 11:01 PM
I probably don't even need to say it: excellent. You're good.


“Call me Kyle,” He began.
Remember, anything after a comma except first person singular is lower case.

“No clue.” Affection.
A little ambiguous. How about "he said with affection"?

“Help me!” I scream. Again, nothing. Not a single note leaves my mouth.
Probably minor, but a "note" would indicate song-like speech or actually singing. Maybe change it to just "sound"? Up to you. Not a major point.

I can't see their faces, they're blurry.
The comma needs to be a semicolon in this instance.

It's Ryan! Ryan! Ryan you need to help me! I'm can't move, I'm stuck! Ryan, help!
Italicize this - it's a thought.

It's true what they say about nightmares. You do wake up in a cold sweat. Your heart does pound out of your chest. But the phone doesn't usually ring.
Very good!

If you would do me a favor: I have two stories in the fiction forum, one is called "Candy Sweet" and that is just an excerpt. The other is called "Orchids," which I wrote because one of the members challenged me to write a g-rated story. This is the only g-rated thing I've ever done. It's boring, but check it out if you would. I really value your opinion. Don't ever be afraid to be honest with me, either. I can take it.

August 21st, 2010, 06:19 AM
Stiiiiiiiiiiiiiilllll too lazy to make a new thread. :D

“Mr. Whitney, is it true that you are the only person in your building, other than Pablo Tacolini himself, that has a key to apartment three?”

Ryan pulled out a chair across from the lanky man. I was already sitting, staring at the side of the pale, scruffy face. He nodded.

“Yeah. Never did use it much. Guy never needed me in there.” He scratched his face.

“Have you been in the room since the murder?” Ryan asked. He tapped a pen against the table.

Whitney shook his head. “Nah. Cops said not to. Figured I should listen, you know?”

“That's a very good way of thinking, Mr. Whitney,” I said, “But the thing is, someone tampered with the crime scene after recovery left.”

Whitney's eyes widened.

“Someone with a key to the apartment.” Ryan finished for me.

“Wait, you think I did somethin' to mess that place up?” Whitney said frantically, “I never did nothing! I haven't been in that guy's room since last Christmas!”

“Mr. Whitney, we haven't accused you of anything. Calm down.” Ryan sighed. He pulled out the picture of the thong, and the picture of the room without the thong.

“Do you recognize this piece of clothing?”

Whitney shook his head. “I never saw that before. And I don't know who it belongs to.”

Something struck me. “Mr. Whitney, after recover left your apartment building, did anyone come in or out? A tenant? Mail carrier?”

Whitney pondered that, “Well, there was this one girl that came in. Said she was visitin' the woman who lives in apartment 4. Never saw her leave.”

I looked at Ryan. He looked back at me.

“Sir, can you describe this woman to us?” Ryan asked. Whitney nodded.

“Well, she was about 5'5”, He began, scratching his head, “Kinda wavy, brown hair. Tiny face. Real pretty.”

I looked at Ryan. He showed me a quick flash of a photo and mouthed the words 'Olivia Rose' at me. I glanced at the photo. She matched the description that Whitney had given us. I nodded. Ryan passed the photo to him.

“Mr. Whitney, is this the woman that you saw in your building?”

He picked up the photo and squinted at it. After a few moments of careful consideration, he set it back on the table.

“That's the one. Who's she?”

“Her name is Olivia Rose. She's a journalist that works with the Oshawa This Week.”

Whitney nodded. “I think maybe I might've read her articles. She popular?”

I nodded. “Seems to be that way.”

Suddenly, Ryan's cell phone vibrated. He passed it to me and continued talking to Whitney. I looked at the screen.

Oliva Rose is ready. Next room.

I nudged Ryan and showed him the text. He glanced down and nodded.

“Well, Mr. Whitney, thank you for your time. You've been an excellent help. If we need to talk again, we'll be in touch.”

Whitney nodded and the three of us left the room.

“He's not lying.” Ryan said as he ushered me into the next room. A woman sat at the table.

Olivia Rose did not differ from the photo Ryan had showed me. She was a petite woman, short, with facial features to match. Small, almond shaped brown eyes dotted a pale, oval shaped face. Pixie-like lips lay stained with pink. She turned to look as we entered the room. She grinned a flirty grin at Ryan. He returned it. A pang of unwelcome jealousy hit my stomach.

“Ms. Rose, I'm Special Agent Ryan Carr, and this is my partner, Dr. Katelyn Amos.” Ryan introduced in a smooth voice. I suddenly missed him calling me Katie.

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” She began, speaking only to Ryan alone, “Although I wish it wasn't under these circumstances. It's terrible, really. That girl, and those two men dead? It's a tragedy.”

Ryan nodded sympathetically. “It is, isn't it?” He began as he sat down. I ended up pulling my own chair out, “And it must be so hard for you, having to write about it. How many articles have you written on the deaths so far, Ms. Rose?”

Rose smiled. “Call me Olivia,” She said sweetly, “And I'm not completely sure anymore. There's been so much to write about. I mean, the details, the family statements. It's been overwhelming.”

I piped up. I was getting sick of the flirting. “Ms. Rose, did you know one of the murder victims? A Mr. Pablo Tacolini?”

She shook her head. “Never heard of him. It's still so sad, though. I hear he was an immigrant. There's no peace for them, you know?”

“I know.” Ryan immediately said. I glared at him.

“That's funny, Olivia,” I began, fishing for the photo of the thong, “Because we found this planted at the Tacolini crime scene after recovery processed it.”

I handed the picture to her. She picked it up and looked at me quizzically. “What does this have to do with me, Dr. Amos?”

“It's got your DNA on it. Care to explain?” I said, probably with a little too much attitude. Ryan held up a hand to silence me.

“Forgive my partner, Olivia. She's a little hostile.”

If looks could kill.

I gave Ryan a death glare that screamed how much trouble he was in. He turned back to Olivia.

“Olivia, is there anyway you could explain this?”

“No, Agent Carr. I've never even been to those apartments.” She said innocently. I scoffed.

“The landlord said you were visiting the old lady in apartment four.”

She gave me with the dirtiest look imaginable. “Well obviously the landlord is trying to frame me. Why would I plant my own thong with my own DNA at the crime scene? Surely, Dr. Amos, with your level of intelligence, you should be able to determine that for yourself. Are you sure you're a real doctor?”

If looks could disintegrate.

I looked to Ryan. He stood and grabbed Olivia's hand.

“I'm sorry to bother you with this, Ms. Rose,” He brought her hand to his lips, 'You've been a lovely, lovely witness.”

She smiled as Ryan and I left interrogation. As soon as the door closed, I turned on him.

“What the hell was that?”

He raised an eyebrow. “What was what?”

I sighed exasperatedly. “The flirting! What the hell, Ryan?”

“What was with the hostility?”

I looked at him with wide eyes. “What was with the hostility? I had every right to be hostile in there!Not only did she insult me on a personal and professional level, she disrespected me. I am not going to take that from her, or you. Grow the hell up, Ryan.”

“Calm down,” He said, raising his hands in a 'hold up' gesture. I scoffed. “So, what did you interpret from that?”

“Oh, I don't know.” I began, “Maybe that she's hiding something?”

“How do you know she's hiding something? Maybe she was right. Maybe the landlord is trying to frame her.”

I shook my head. Unbelievable. “You said yourself that he wasn't lying!”

Shrug. “Maybe I was wrong.”

I sighed and turned my back on him, starting the long walk back to my office. Ryan called out behind me.

“I'll be in your office with Thai at six.” Humor.


When I made it to my office, I unlocked the door, flopped the files and photos from interrogation on my couch, and sat down behind my laptop.

There was something that didn't seem quite so right about this Olivia Rose. Something wasn't normal. She was hiding something, and I planned to get to the bottom of it. I clicked on Safari and it opened to my homepage, Google. I typed Olivia's name in the search bar.

The first page of results was newspaper sites. The official 'This Week' site, the Toronto Star site, Globe and Mail. None of the sites told me anything I didn't already know.

Then I spotted it. A site advertising the Cat Scratch club. Olivia Rose had been tagged in a post. I clicked the link and waited for the page to load.

What it told me about the innocent Ms. Rose wasn't a bombshell, but it was enough to explain the thong.