Beastly: Sequel to "Mr. Perfect"

Chapter 32: Schedules and Command Centers

🌸Faith (P.O.V.)🌸

By the time I was done talking, Roberto and DJ were just staring at the table.

The bakery was busy—espresso machine hissing, plates clinking, people laughing, the door chiming every time somebody came in—but at our table, everything felt muted.

It was just me, Roberto, and DJ, and the four open manila folders spread out like evidence.

Roberto leaned forward, with his elbows on his knees, eyes narrowed at the folders, while DJ  slouched back in his chair, legs stretched out, but his gaze kept flicking between my face and the pages.

Crumbs sat untouched on the napkins as none of us touched our pastries.

"I don't know what's actually going on yet," I said. "But everything I've seen—and everything I've heard from Annika so far—suggests Tybalt might be behind the whole thing."

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Then, DJ let out a long sigh.

"Man..." he said, dragging a hand over his face. "Coach, I remember her.  Zuri. At the studio. When we was shootin' Tybalt's music video."

Roberto nodded immediately.

"Yeah," he said, pointing lightly at her headshot. "I remember her, too. She was always around, Coach."

"Yeah, we hit it off," I said. "She was easy to be around."

"She had mad skills," DJ added. "For real. She was good. She ate that choreography up."

Roberto glanced from the photo back to me.

"Coach, you remember her sayin' she'd be workin' with Tybalt on a few more projects after that?" he asked. "'Cause I swear I remember her talkin' 'bout that."

I nodded slowly as the memory came back to me: Zuri's excited voice in the dressing room, the way her eyes lit up every time she said his name.

"Yeah, I remember," I said. "She told me he wanted her for more projects. She was so happy about it. Saying how blessed she felt, how this was her shot, how working with Tybalt was going to change everything for her. And now...now it's like she disappeared right after that music video."

The three of us fell silent, all staring at the folders like they might start explaining themselves.

The bakery noise rolled around us again—milk steamer, clinking cups, someone laughing way too loudly, the barista calling out a name—but at our table, it was just stillness.

After a while, Roberto cleared his throat.

"Aight...so I gotta ask," he said, leaning back as he squinted at the folders. "Coach, did you...like steal these?"

I blinked and looked at him.

He threw his hands up, palms out.

"I'm jus' sayin,' he said quickly. "'Cause if these came outta Tybalt Anderson's official record room like you said, I need to know what we dealin' with. I ain't tryna to go to jail fo' bein' an accomplice to theft. Especially not from his spot. Man got money, lawyers, security, the whole industry behind him, that's all."

"Seriously, Roberto?" I asked.

"Oh, I'm bein' serious. You know how I feel 'bout you, but I'm not built for prison. I already told you, orange is not my color."

"Yet, every time you hack into somewhere, you're increasing your chances of going to prison."

He cleared his throat.