8. Camille

A week later, I was an obsessed mess. My apartment was covered with papers that had scribbled notes all over them, the three-ring binder I’d been keeping all my Black Crimson research in had been dismantled and was spread across my floor, and an entire wall in my living room was filled with holes where I’d tacked up the important articles and pictures with push pins and even connected them with strings of yarn.

It looked like a freaking detective’s crime board, but I was finding so much information, and everything was linking together faster than I thought it would; I’d needed to do something to keep the order.

Rubbing my chin and squinting at the photograph of a mural Black Crimson had made on the side of a historical museum, I sighed because I couldn’t link this one back to Broderick Carmichael at all.

I knew there had to be something, though, because I’d been able to somehow find a connection between him and all the other murals.

I just had to keep digging.

Meanwhile—

I glance