Chapter Twenty-One

"I've got them."

Sniffling, Chloe pulled her head off Lucifer's damp shoulder to blink groggily at the ceiling. She hadn't heard the speakers crackle over her own sobs. "What?"

"The files," Bethany said breathlessly. "From Chet's phone and his computer. I'm sending them to the Chromebook now. I'm sorry I was gone so long—it took a while to track everything down. How's he doing?"

Chloe's eyes narrowed into a glare. "Like you care."

"I do," the kidnapper insisted. "I swear. I don't want anyone to di—"

The computer chimed with the arrival of the new files.

"Save it," Chloe snapped. Her sympathy level for the woman was at about a negative five right now. Gently disentangling herself from Lucifer, Chloe got up just long enough to retrieve the Chromebook, the remaining half of her Gold Bar, and an off-brand sports drink—the only kind that was left. Then she settled back on the mattress again, the computer on her lap.

Chloe clicked on one of the new folders that had popped up. She figured there must be some sort of closed network set up within the building. There certainly wasn't any outside Internet connection—at least none that she knew how to find. She'd investigated the possibility early on, hoping to discreetly send out a distress call, but tech stuff had never been her strong suit and the exercise had only eaten up precious time.

Chloe sighed and cracked open the seal on the sports drink. All that crying had left her dehydrated and utterly spent. She took a sip of warm orange liquid that tasted like Children's Triaminic and made a face. Lucifer was right. The stuff was poison.

Setting the vile drink aside, Chloe began skimming over file names and email subject lines, hoping one would jump out as significant. Something labeled "Suicide Note" or "Guilty Confession" would be perfect right about now. Bethany remained silent throughout the search, for which Chloe was glad. She was so not in the mood for any more of the woman's sob stories. There was no excuse in the world good enough to put someone through this kind of torture.

Chloe didn't bother much with the stuff dated prior to the murder, except to confirm that Chet didn't have any contact with Rose or Martin outside of work. He didn't even have their email addresses or cell numbers. No personal relationship with either the victim or the accused killer meant no motive. So that was out the window.

Just based on the volume of emails and phone calls and some of the subject lines, Chloe could see the general trends in Chet's life over the years.

Back before his transition, there were some attempts to get a music career started. Failed attempts, mostly. Not because he wasn't good, but because he frequently lost his nerve and backed out of auditions. The rare times he booked a gig, he often cancelled due to anxiety. His life, on a whole, looked empty and bleak. Like a plant left forgotten in a dark corner—dried out and covered in a layer of dust.

Then he started his gender transition, and little by little, things changed. He found a support group for trans individuals and made connections. His social life began to blossom, both in person and online. He booked a regular Monday night singing gig at a local coffeehouse. He got therapy for his anxiety and anorexia, gained some much-needed weight, and even started going out with someone he'd met through his new community. At one point his Instagram account, which featured regular pictures and vids of his performances at the Caffeine Hive, had over four thousand followers—a staggering feat for someone once too shy to even post a selfie.

Four thousand followers. Chloe shook her head, bemused. She herself had only twelve—and two of those were Dan and Trixie. Obviously, the gender transition had done wonders for Chet. It was like watching that shriveled up plant re-hydrate and come back to life, blooming like never before.

Everything changed after Rose's murder. In the months following her death, Chet's budding social life and music career became non-existent once more. He quit the coffeehouse gig he'd worked so hard to get. He broke up with a boyfriend he seemed crazy about. Chet wrote an emotional "thank you" note to his fans, and then stopped updating his Insta account. And, judging from the photo in his final post, his anorexia was back in full force. The only thing that didn't change was his bartending job at Brimstone.

From a handful of emails to his parents and sister, Chloe gleaned that Chet hated the job. She got the vibe that he was keeping it as a means to punish himself—though for what, she didn't know. Based on what she now knew of his personality, Chloe couldn't imagine Chet committing the murder himself. The man had started a GoFundMe campaign to save a butterfly sanctuary, for Pete's sake. He was like, the opposite of a killer.

One thing was clear, though: something had happened to Chet the night of the murder. Something he couldn't live with.

Chloe nibbled her Gold Bar, letting each tiny shard melt into syrupy sweetness on her tongue. She scanned email after email, photo after photo, looking for some little clue as to what went down.

Come on, Chet, she urged, I know you didn't kill her—just tell me what happened.

Beside her, Lucifer started trembling. Chloe froze in place, her heart pounding in anticipation of another seizure. After a moment of watching him, however, she realized he was just cold. No wonder, given that he was still completely soaked, and the warehouse wasn't all that warm to begin with.

Chloe wished she had a blanket for him. Then again, she wished she had a lot of things. A phone. A blowtorch. Her gun. With a sigh, she snuggled closer and began massaging one of Lucifer's icy hands, trying to give him what little body heat she had left.

His breathing was getting more labored by the minute, even in the upright position. She'd turned the oxygen down to stretch it out as long as possible, but it was bound to run out completely sooner rather than later. The needle on the gauge had been in the red for over thirty minutes. By this point, Lucifer was literally running on fumes.

Chloe's stomach churned with despair as she neared the end of the materials Bethany had sent. Finally, only one folder remained, entitled "Auditions." Chloe opened it not because it held any real promise, but because looking at anything was better than just sitting there, holding Lucifer's cold hand, watching the clock on the table tick down to zero.

Predictably, the folder contained videos of Chet's auditions, both pre- and post-transition. Chloe watched a few at random, noting once again the dichotomy between before and after the gender change. Between a skinny, timid young person who huddled at the piano with hunched shoulders, looking afraid to be onstage, and a man who seemed to own the stage with almost Lucifer-like charisma.

There was nothing new here, nothing Chloe didn't already know. Her time would be better spent going through Chet's emails again. Maybe she'd missed something the first time around. With a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of her soul, Chloe started to close the folder. Right before she clicked the little "X," something caught her eye:

"Audition_2010_Lux."

Chloe frowned. Lucifer had said that Chet never auditioned at Lux. He'd gotten nervous and hid out in the bathroom. But the size of the file indicated a video at least ten minutes long. And, on closer inspection, the file had been created in 2010, but the "last modified" date was January 7, 2014. Chloe's breath caught. That was just two days before Chet's suicide.

With a shaking hand, she reached out to play the video.