The wordboyfriendgives me pause.
IsNico my boyfriend again?
It’s still early days, but it feels like he is.
A light rap on the halfway-ajar bedroom door makes me jolt. Looking up, I find Knight standing in the doorway, an apologetic expression on his face. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to startleyou. I just wondered if you need anything. Jester was going to make some sandwiches, if you’re hungry.”
I shake my head. “No, that’s okay.” As if I could eat when Nico’s out there, tracking down a suspected killer who may have tried to kill me.
Knight leans against the door jamb. “He’s fine, Sofia. This is nothing for Nico. Not compared to—” He stops. His lips thin. “Well. Anyway. He can handle it. And he’s got Wraith with him, too. So there’s nothing to worry about. I promise.”
How can you promise that?I want to demand.You don’t know. You’re not there.
But I remind myself that Knight and Nico are best friends. They served on the same team together for over four years. If anyone would know what Nico’s capable of, it would be Knight.
Still. I don’t feel better. I won’t feel better until Nico’s back, safe and sound.
“I’m sure you’re right,” I lie. “And thanks for asking about food. But I think I’ll wait to eat until Nico comes back.”
Knight regards me for a moment. Then he nods. “Okay. If you change your mind, or if you want to come into the living room to watch TV with us… Jester’s got some documentary about a poop cruise on, but I can make him change it.”
“Apoopcruise?” I ask. “Is that some new thing I haven’t heard about?”
He laughs. “No. Apparently, it’s about some cruise ship that lost power, so the toilets didn’t work for four days. Not a great thing when you’re out at sea.”
I make a little face. “No, it doesn’t sound like it. But I think I’ll take a pass.” Tilting my chin at the top of the dresser, where my laptop is sitting, I add, “I think I’m going to look through some more files. Maybe I’ll find something useful.”
“Okay.” He smiles. “We’ll just be down the hall.”
Once he’s gone, I get up from the bed and go over to the dresser, then bring my laptop back over to it. I’m not feeling particularly optimistic about finding anything helpful, not when I’ve come up with a big fat zero so far. But I have to keep looking.
What if it has nothing to do with any of your cases,a new, worried voice inside me asks. What if I was targeted for some other unknown reason? Or what if it turns out it was Brian after all, like Nico suggested?
No. Brian wouldn’t. I’m sure of it. If it’s not related to one of my riskier cases, it’s something else. A stalker. A crazed serial killer. A case of mistaken identity.
Setting unwelcome thoughts about Brian to the side, I flip open my laptop and open the program that holds all my files. As I scan the little folders inside, looking at the names and dates for each case, I can’t help worrying about the state of my business.
Will I have a business to go back to once all this is over? I started calling my active clients the other day to apologize for my lack of communication, explaining that I’d had an accident and was indisposed for several days because of it. Which isn’t even a lie, really—Iwashurt and indisposed, except the injuries were intentional.
In the messages and emails I left, I offered to refer them to other private investigation agencies, since I don’t know when I’ll be able to go back to work. I hate it, watching all my hard work essentially get flushed down the toilet, but what other option do I have? I don’t know when this will be over, and I can’t leave my clients hanging indefinitely.
Sighing at the thought of it, I click over to my emails. As I read through my new messages, I find two from clients accepting my offer for a referral. I send them both a list of PIs I’ve worked with in the past and wish them the best. Then I sigh again.
I know it’s not my fault. But it still sucks.
Then I move on to the third client who responded. Her name is Emily Weaver, and her case was one of my most recent ones, so I don’t recall much about it aside from meeting her. I remember going to her house—a well-kept Colonial in Jersey City, near Lincoln Park—on the last day I remember before the attack.
She was convinced her ex husband had gotten into her house and stolen several pieces of expensive jewelry.“He took everything else in the divorce,”Emily told me tearfully.“But the jewelry was my mother’s. He couldn’t take that, too. And I know he was angry about it.”
But Emily couldn’t prove her ex had done anything wrong. Her security system was excellent, and it hadn’t shown any sign of a break-in.“I changed the codes on the smart locks and the alarm keypad,”Emily explained,“and he doesn’t have them. So he couldn’t have gotten inside. But the jewelry is gone. No one else has been here. I didn’t sell it, so I know he must have taken it. I just don’t know how.”
When she went to the police, they looked at the lack of evidence and brushed her off. One of the officers even accused her of lying to get her ex in trouble.“He insinuated that I sold it,”Emily recalled.“And that what I was doing was fraud. That I could get in real trouble if I kept up with my story. But it’s not a story. It’s real. I wouldn’t have sold my mother’s jewelry. Ever.”
Obviously, her case struck a chord with me. So I agreed to take it, even though she couldn’t afford to pay the full retainer. “Pay what you can,” I told her. “And I’ll do my best to find out the truth.”
In contrast to my other emails, Emily doesn’t want a referral. She wants to wait until I feel better.
You believed me,she wrote.You didn’t make me feel like a crazy person or a fraud. Take care of yourself, and let me know when you’re feeling better.
