Okay.
Damn, this hurts.
My phone rings before I can put it away, and I huff.
“Yeah, Kade,” I answer.
“Don’t do this,” he says.
My teeth immediately clench. “I’m just going to ask if anyone knows where—”
“Gemma, it’s too fresh,” he argues. “Lance and Trevor’s lease expired two years ago. I will find where they are. I will find Rad. Just don’t… Please don’t do this.”
I balk slightly. “What exactly do you think I’m going to do? I don’t have any weapons on me.”
“You and I both know you don’t need weapons to take care of anything.”
I chew on my tongue for a beat, watching as someone exits the building.
“I’m just going to talk to the front desk.”
“Gemma—”
I end the call, stuff the phone in my pocket, then rush to make the door before it shuts, muttering a quick, “Thanks!” to the guy who saw me coming and waited back.
I have to blink so that my eyes adjust to the dark lobby as the door shuts behind me. The blinds on the windows are closed, refusing the sunlight trying to come in.
And it smells like incense and salt in here.
A woman sits behind an old welcome desk, cubbies behind her that appear to be mail lockers.
“You waiting on a friend or running from one?” she asks without looking up from her cell phone.
“Ah… Actually, looking for one,” I answer, stepping up to the desk. “A couple of old friends. They used to rent a place here. Lance Deblem and Trevor… Shit, what was Trevor’s last name…”
Her eyes finally drag up to look at me, and I watch as her lips purse in an annoyed way. “Gordon?” the woman says, her voice hoarse. She sets the joint she’s smoking into the tray nearby and shifts in her seat. “Trevor Gordon?”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, Trevor Gordon. You… you wouldn’t happen to know where they’re living now, do you?”
Her dark gaze wanders over me for a beat, and I’m not stupid enough to think the green contacts or blue wig is throwing her off, not to mention the half-mask I’m wearing.
“What’s with the mask?” she asks.
“Germs. The world is disgusting lately.”
She grabs a ruler by her desk and taps the camera in the corner over her head. “You see this?” she asks.
I nod.
“Doesn’t work,” she tells me. “There. There’s your measure of good faith. I give you something, you give me something. Now, take your mask down.”
I tilt my head. “Is that a policy somewhere that I missed?” I ask.
“Sweetie, the only people looking for Lance and Trevor are the ones who they owe money to,” she says. “So what do they owe you for?”
Gamblers.
Maybe that’s a lead we can follow.
