“I think we have our room,” Cassel says, looking thrilled. “Let me get my stuff and I’ll be ready.”
“Have you even slept since yesterday?”
“I slept a little on the plane. I drooled all over Jeremy’s shoulder. He said it was ‘sexy’… or maybe he grimaced a little and said pesky, fuck if I know,” he says as he grabs everything he needs and hurries after me.
Not at all surprisingly, our entire group—including Sophia—decides to go, but we decide that only Jackson, Cassel, and I will go into the building to keep from looking suspicious. We’re not sure if there’s an attendant at the door or how this place works, and having our group wander in with no idea of where to go or how to get up would immediately raise suspicion.
“You guys keep the murder van company while we’re gone,” I instruct the others.
“We could just drive off, have a beer,” Tavish says.
“Ice cream sounds better,” Ellis comments, here for some reason that none of us really know. He obviously doesn’t want to be here, but he’s not prepared to let Tavish go off on his own and not be there to “help.”
“I’m happy with anything as long as Leland’s quiet during it,” Sophia says.
“I could drink to that!” Tavish announces.
I slide my bag over my back and head toward the front of the skyrise apartment with Jackson and Cassel. It clearly costs a good amount to live here, which tells me that he’s been making decent money on his jobs as the “Silencer.” The front door isn’t locked since there’s a restaurant just inside. But by the time we reach the elevator, Cassel already has a keycard in his hands and a woman is left patting her waist for hers.
“You can just ride up with us,” Cassel says.
She smiles at the man who snatched her card. “Thank you. I must have left it in the apartment.”
And up we go.
We stop at the seventh floor to let the woman off and then again at the twelfth floor where we get out. The doors open and we nearly run into a woman who gives us a curious look. She continues down the hallway while we slowly head toward Colby’s apartment, not wanting to draw attention to ourselves and hoping she disappears inside so we’re not left standing outside of his door and raising questions. Instead, she starts chatting with someone while standing in their doorway.
“Just… block what I’m doing,” Cassel whispers as he presses something against the scanner outside of Colby’s door.
“I can have Jackson take his shirt off, if you think it’ll help,” I say.
“What would that help?” Cassel asks.
“You think she might like ladies instead? I mean… Jackson does look beautiful as a woman too. If she squints hard enough, she can just pretend.”
“Nope,” Jackson states.
“Jackson, you could save our lives here,” I say.
“I’m pretty sure distracting a neighbor who isn’t even really paying us any attention isn’t saving our lives,” he counters.
“I’m in,” Cassel declares, and at first, I assume he’s talking about seeing Jackson half naked, but then I realize he means that he’s already broken into the apartment.
“That was boringly quick. I was hoping she’d come over and be all like, ‘Who are you?’ And I’d whip up Jackson’s shirt and be like, ‘The strippers you ordered,’ and she’d be like, ‘OH MY,’ and then?—”
I get shoved into the room before I can explain my “and then.” They’re really both so jealous of my way of thinking.
We head into the apartment that looks like it’s straight out of a staging magazine. There’s no personalization to the room at all.
“I doubt he’s been here long, and I doubt he’s planning on staying long,” I observe as I start looking around.
“He likely came here because of you,” Cassel says. “I’ve looked at the apartment list and this unit is rented by a Lila Owens.”
“Interesting. A girlfriend? Or just a lie to keep his life separate?” I mutter while I head farther into the luxury apartment. When I reach his bedroom, I slide open the closet and my fingers drift through his clothes. I kneel down, looking for something that might have been hidden, but just as I’m reaching out to the tower of stuff crammed inside, I hear a noise behind me.
“In here,” Jackson calls from a room deeper in. I wander toward him and see the only thing that seems to be personalized in any way being held in Jackson’s gloved hands. He sets what looks like some kind of album or scrapbook down on a desk and begins flipping through it. “You think these are people he’s killed?”
Each page has a name and photograph. Some of them have newspaper clippings. Some have photographs of their dead bodies. There’s so much detail. Where they died, how they died, anything news related to their death. It’s like a scrapbook of dead people rangingyears.
