“His work.” I close the distance between us and force my presence into her space. “Where is the evidence cache he kept? His notes. His contacts.”
“Evidence? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” In her desperate attempt to regain control, her expression shifts. She’s slipping back into her comfortable role. “The only evidence I have is that your aura is?—”
“I’m not here for my aura.” What the fuck is an aura anyway?
She flinches and rears back a single step. “I don’t?—”
“I’m here for the evidence cache. And you’re going to tell me where it is. Now.”
She gapes, her fingers trembling at her sides. “I…don’t know.”
I press close enough to smell the citrus on her breath. To see the pulse hammering in her throat. “Try again.”
She shakes her head while backing herself against the cardboard desk. “I can’t help you. Except with your chakras. They’re a mess.”
Fine. The hard way, then.
I ignore her protests and stride into the kitchen.
It’s as sparse as a monk’s cell. Three cabinets hang slightly crooked on their hinges, revealing a sad collection of mismatched plates and mugs. A shapeless, handmade bag sits on the counter. The fridge runs with an extended death rattle.
When I pull open the door, I see nothing but half a grapefruit wrapped in plastic and a crinkled bottle of water. Deli condiment packs sit haphazardly in the shelves.
On the outside of the refrigerator, a cheap photo strip hangs by a sun-shaped magnet. Four black-and-white images of Jordan and another woman with dark skin and tight curls hangsby a sun-shaped magnet. In the pictures, the two women make progressively sillier faces.
The final frame shows them laughing, their heads thrown back in a moment of unguarded joy captured in low resolution. Underneath, a bright pink “Me and Ashley” sits in the white space, a heart drawn at the end.
Above the photo strip, another magnet holds a little business card with an illustration of a tooth to the top of the fridge. The date and time of a dentist appointment is handwritten on the reminder, along with “Jordan Bennett.” NotThorne.
After noting the last name, I refocus on the task at hand.
I head toward the bedroom area of the tiny studio. Jordan hesitates before following, trailing me instead of fleeing like a sane woman.
Makes things easier for me, but I’m not sure what she’s doing. Why hasn’t she tried to escape?
A colorful quilt that’s seen better days covers the thin, lumpy futon. Stacked milk crates filled with neat piles of clothes sit against the wall. I run my hand along the underside of each crate, checking for taped documents or anything amiss.
Nothing.
Just more crystals placed in patterns that probably have meaning to her. Not resin holding more hints, but actual rocks someone picked up off the ground. Random clutter.
I find no hidden compartments, loose floorboards, or wall safe here.
Grabbing the frame of the wobbly, tied-together cots that serve as a bed, I lift enough to peek underneath. Empty except for a library book with a cracked spine and a pile of paperbacks. Mysteries and crime novels, not spiritual guidance.
“What are you searching for?” While she’s standing far enough away that I can’t reach her, she doesn’t move for the door or a phone. Interesting. “I told you, I don’t have anything.Those books might get you a dollar for the whole stack at the used bookstore, but even that’s optimistic.”
A slow sweep of the room confirms what I’m beginning to realize.
This isn’t a home. It’s a waystation, a place to temporarily exist while waiting for time to pass or for an event to happen. No permanence. No roots. I could pack the entire apartment into a single suitcase, minus the appliances.
Her secrets live somewhere else.
I reach for her laptop and shapeless bag, crushing its soft, worn, velvety fabric in my fingers.
“Hey, wait a second. You can’t just?—”
I point to the door, wordlessly issuing my non-negotiable command.
