Perhaps some awful things can be made right after all.
Not all, but some.
And I’m fine with that.
Nobody answers when I knock on Rhea’s door.
I should be glad. I told her to take her things and go. Maybe that’s why.
But the lock isn’t right.
I feel it the moment I shoulder the door. I’ve done enough breaking and entering to know. The deadbolt’s turned, sure, but the wood around the strike plate is flaked and soft, like someone worried it with a screwdriver. The security chain dangles, one end still anchored to the jamb, the other bent and swinging loose. A crescent of drywall dust lies on the floor beneath it.
I step inside, and the place breathes cold at me.
I look around.
She didn’t take her coat. The grey one’s still hooked by the door. Her shoes are a mess. One boot is by the mat, the other half under the radiator, as if it skidded there. The rug’s rucked near the threshold. There are scuffs on the wood: a dark, curved streak that looks too much like rubber for my liking.
Something’s wrong.
My heart skips. My fingertips prickle.
I wish she’d just left. It’d be easier that way, if she’d just thrown it all to the wolves, shod herself, and skipped town.
But my gut’s giving me a different answer, and I know it’s right. She didn’t leave. She wastaken.
And if she was taken, it’s because of one of two names that make my skin crawl.
Fisher or Rey.
I was on a job with one of them not an hour ago. What are the chances he used it as cover to send his boys after my girl, just to teach me a lesson about loyalty?
Fuck.
Heat climbs my spine. My hands go cold.
There’s still a knock’s worth of energy in me for the neighbor across the hall. I leave Rhea’s door open and cross to his. No answer on the first knock. Or the second. On the third, I ball my fist and slam it flat against the wood.
“Open up,” I call. “Maintenance.”
Silence. Then a shuffle and a stop.
I don’t have time for this. Still, I put on a face. Chances are people cooperate easier this way.
“C’mon, man. I just need a minute. Pipe check. Upstairs complained about a leak.”
The peephole darkens. The chain scrapes. The door opens three inches. A face like old stucco peers out: patchy beard, broken capillaries spidering across the nose. Not really a face that screamsfriendly, helpful neighbor.
“Wasn’t no leak,” he says.
“Then you’ll get a gold star.” I grin too wide. “Quick look and I’m out of your hair.”
He starts to close the door. I wedge my palm in the gap.
“Hey. Did you hear anything across the hall? From Rhea’s place?”
He blinks slow. “I don’t know no Rhea.”
