It’s not real. She’s playing a role.She’s the only reasonable explanation for the bugs planted in my penthouse.
I put the book back after I’m sure it’s not holding any secret codes or messages between the pages of blue racoons and baby ducks eating at a diner.
I can’t find any weapons at all. I assume they’re in a secret compartment somewhere, but it must be well hidden. She’s a real pro, and I’m pissed that I’ve lost my typical ability to determine when someone’s an enemy or a civilian.
That first night, she certainly screwed me...in the head and elsewhere. I won’t be so naive again. Even if her apartment seems like a realistic setup, she was no doubt prepared for me to be here.
My next stop is the pretend boyfriend’s place. He doesn’t have a legal residence, but his mail is sent to Kate’s previous address. They went above and beyond, corroborating her history, even having her crash on the best friend’s couch.
I don’t knock on the door, instead picking the lock and entering easily. I almost want him to be here because it would give me an excuse to question him or kick his ass.
It’s filthy. A pile of dog shit greets me upon entrance. I hold my breath through the rest of the residence. It blows my mind that people live in these conditions. Cleaning is a basic human ability everyone possesses. Nothing special is revealed, except for used condoms in the trash, indicating that Stephen Rail is having sex with someone, most likely the girl on the apartment’s leasing agreement, Madison Street. There’s a good chance they’re both civilians and Kate went undercover months ago to establish connections that look real.
I find several framed photos of her and a long-haired man in one of the closets, coming to the conclusion that Kate did live here recently. After seeing the apartment she shares with Mel, this one is clearly in a worse condition. I’m hoping when she was living here, it wasn’t so trashed. It doesn’t make sense that her belongings are still here. I’m irritated that my day has only proven to bring up more questions and very few answers.
My last stop is Memory Careon the other side of town. I ask the woman at the front desk to see Mark Dawson, and she directs me to his room.
Upon entering, I’m shocked to see that he’s young, maybe in his fifties, possibly early sixties.
“Hello, sir. I might have the wrong room. Are you Mark Dawson?”
He looks up at me with a wide smile, and I immediately recognize Kate’s blue eyes.
“Well, son, that’s what they call me. What can I do for you?” He grins, setting down the book he was reading.
I step forward to shake his hand. “I came to ask you about your daughter. Have you spoken to her recently?”
I don’t want to use her name, considering he’s checked into a memory care facility and I don’t know his mental state. On the very small chance that Kate Dawson actually is a real person and this is her father, concerning him is the last thing I want to do.
His eyes light up. “Yes, I have a sweet little girl. She’ll be turning five next month. I think we’ll have a little get-together out on the lawn if the weather is nice. Will you be able to make it?”
I stare at him, attempting a smile as my throat feels tight. “What’s your little girl’s name?”
“Sugar bear, honey bun, whatever name comes to mind really. So, do you want to bring a side dish? Martha always asks the guests to do so, but we can provide the meat.” He sits back down at the desk, flipping through the pages of his book to find the place he was just at.
“I, uh … sure, I’ll try to make it. Nice chatting with you, Mr. Dawson.” I’m not getting anywhere with this guy.
He waves as I slowly exit the room, turning to walk down the hall.
This entire day was a complete waste of time.
CHAPTER 11
KATE
Workingout three mornings in a row is probably a new record for me. After my workout and a shower, I get to the office ridiculously early. I’ve never seen the space so empty.
I go in search of coffee in the break room.
“Oh, uh . . . good morning.”
In a light-grey suit, my boss stands near the machine as it brews the dark liquid. His intense green eyes rise up from it to meet my gaze.
“Morning.”
I detest the way my stomach tightens at the sound of his morning voice.
He is a cheater. He is engaged. He is an asshole.
