I return to the pile of work in front of me, then at five minutes to five, I change into a blouse for my appointment and head to the dining room, laptop in hand. I like Michelle. She’s talented and hardworking, but she lacks confidence, and that’s prevented her from not only coming across as effectively as possible but also advocating for herself.
After we greet each other, I tell her not to be alarmed, that the meeting request might be simply an impromptu one. I suggest we run through various reasons her boss might want to get together and then play out a response to each, including an appropriate one if she is indeed let go. We seem to make a lot of progress over the next thirty minutes, but as we wrap up the role-playing, Michelle lets out a long, anxious sigh.
“Do you want to talk it through a bit more?” I ask.
“No, that’s not necessary.” She grimaces. “It’s just—well, I know you’ve encouraged me to speak up more and to ask for opportunities, but I’m wondering if it’s backfired somehow, that I’ve come across too aggressively. And now they think I’m a bad fit for the organization.”
Her comment totally throws me. “I doubt that’s it,” I say, trying not to appear as offended as I feel. “From what you’ve told me, itsounds like everything you’ve done lately has gone over well. Try to put the meeting out of your mind for now, unwind over a nice dinner, and text me tomorrow once you know what’s up.”
“Um, okay. Thanks, Katherine.”
As soon as the call ends, I drop my elbows on the table and sink my head into my hands. Could Michelle be right? Have I misread what she’s told me about her company’s ecosystem and pushed her to be more assertive than is warranted? I was sure I was guiding her correctly and felt proud of the sessions I’d done with her, but what if I actually fucked things up for her?
I urge myself not to worry yet, since I won’t know anything until Michelle reports back to me tomorrow.
It’s nearly six now, and after a short but comforting call with my mom, I wander into the kitchen. Mindful of the advice I gave Michelle about unwinding over a nice dinner, I thaw a chicken breast in the microwave, coat it with a beaten egg and a ton of breadcrumbs, and sauté it in olive oil. I also make a tomato salad. On the spur of the moment, I load the finished meal onto a tray and carry it to the backyard, along with a citronella candle.
It’s turned out to be a beautiful evening, in total contrast to the morning. There’s a light breeze now, and the air is ripe with the smell of citronella as well as the intoxicating, jasmine-like scent of honeysuckle.
Almost imperceptibly, dusk dissolves into twilight. Fireflies begin to blink in the grass, and before long they’re glowing everywhere in a dance that almost looks choreographed. For a few brief seconds, I could be twelve years old again and back in Pennsylvania, hanging outside after dark for another game of Capture the Flag to begin. It seems like any minute now, I’ll hear one of my parents’ voices calling me inside.
I try to relax and savor the moment, but it’s next to impossible.For one thing I can’t look at the chair across from me without thinking of Sam sitting there earlier and being reminded that my feelings for him are completely ridiculous. I’m also still agitated from the day’s events—my unsettling encounter with Percy, as well as the discovery I made about the properties on Jamie’s list and what they might mean.
It’s more than that, though. This small backyard might be lovely, but it’s not where I belong. I should be back in the city—seeing friends, getting to know my new neighborhood, having coffee in the afternoons at the small café near my apartment building, and working out of my own little home office, where I can be clearer headed about my work.
But I can’t leave. Not until I’ve done everything I can to ensure Jamie’s killer is apprehended.
I’M UP EARLY AGAIN ON MONDAY, AND AFTER A QUICK BREAKFAST, I’m on the road by seven thirty, dressed in one of the nice tops I brought and a cotton skirt.
My plan today is to revisit some of the houses on Jamie’s list and see if I can talk to anyone who’s living in them. I’ve set out early so I can catch residents before they leave for work. I’m not sure what kind of success I’ll have, but I’m hoping that speaking to someone living in at least one of the properties will shed light on the matter. Are the houses owned solely by Liam, for instance, or has he partnered with anyone, which would have made them more affordable? Are they definitely being rented out? I assume that’s the case, but I want to be sure. And maybe I can even stumble onto revelations beyond that.
I stop first at the closest house on the list, but I’m out of luck. Though the place appears occupied, the driveway is empty, and no one answers the door when I knock. My second try, at a house about fifteen minutes farther west, is also a bust. Then, thanks to getting stuck behind a tractor on a two-lane road, it takes me nearly half an hour toreach the third spot, one of the ranch houses I saw on Friday. To my relief, there’s an SUV in the driveway, so I park along the road. After climbing out of my car, I walk up the sidewalk and, taking a breath, rap on the door. After a short wait, my knock is answered by a bearded guy is his late thirties or early forties, about five ten and stocky. His dark brown hair is styled in a mullet, and something tells me it’s not a tongue-in-cheek homage to the ’80s.
“What can I do for you?” he asks without a smile, as if he’s hoping my answer will be “Nothing.” He’s holding a metal travel mug, which suggests he’s planning to hit the road soon.
“Good morning. I’m trying to find a house to rent and—”
“Let me stop you right there,” he says, kicking up his chin. There’s a jagged white scar on it, shaped like the blade of a saw. “You must have been looking at an old listing—this place is rented now.”
“Yeah, I thought it might be,” I say and beam a smile. “But I heard the guy who owns it has other places for rent, and I was hoping you could give me the name of his company or tell me how I can get in touch with him.”
He stares at me, scrunching his mouth to the side. “You new to the area?”
“No, I’m renting a place around here, but the owner is thinking of selling.” On the drive from Ash Street, I’d decided not to say I was from New York. I figured that if anyone I talk to ends up mentioning to Liam that a woman dropped by asking questions, it will have been best not to draw attention to being from the city. “I’m sorry to show up out of the blue, but I’m feeling kind of desperate. There’s so little inventory these days.”
“The guy who rents it is on his own, not with a company,” he says after a brief hesitation, “but yeah, I guess I can give you his number.” He seems to have lowered his guard, and I sense he’s buying my story.
He tells me to wait and disappears into the house. Without him acting as a barrier, I get a better look at the entryway area. It’s freshly painted, but dusty, and the floor is cluttered with work boots and sneakers. After a few seconds, the house smells finally reach out to greet me, a combination, I think, of weed, bacon, and dog fur.
“Okay, here ya go,” the guy says, returning shortly with a crumpled envelope. He shifts his gaze to read from the back of it. “The owner’s name is Liam Larsson.”
“Great, thanks,” I say, taking my phone out for show and typing in the number as he rattles it off.
“I think he does have other places,” the guy adds, “but I have no clue if they’re available.”
“Well, it can’t hurt to ask.” I pause, wondering if there’s anything else I can extract with the right question. “Uh, what’s he like, anyway? Is he easy to deal with?”
“Yeah, a straight shooter. Responds pretty quickly when something leaks or falls apart.”
