We walk another mile, on high alert.
“What is that?” I’m looking at Weeks, but when I turn to look in front of me, it comes into view.
“What the hell?” Confused, I take a step toward it before Weeks grabs my arm.
“Wait,” He whispers to me, head swiveling from left to right, then he turns to face the way we came. “Be smart.”
In front of us, barely visible to the naked eye if you weren’t paying attention, is a makeshift hut of some sort of fashion. Stepping closer, it blends into the foliage around it. Crouching down, gun out, ready to shoot, I peek inside what is a one-person hut, but it’s empty. Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out my flashlight and illuminate the inside, spotting a bed of leaves and trash. Panning my light to the other side, I mutter, “You got to be fucking kidding me.” The light bounces off a dinner plate from my house. From inside my fucking house.
Straightening up, holstering my gun, and letting the flashlight fall, I tear down the hut, grunting at its intricate construction, as I pull tree limbs that were intertwined to holdthe top. Forgoing my hands, I kick the leaf and moss-covered hiding place, watching it easily break apart.
Once done, I turn to Weeks. “What the ever-loving fuck? Whoever was staying in there is also the one who was in my house. There was one of our dinner plates.” I bend down, rifling through the torn-down hut, bringing the plate to the surface as I blow the leaves and dirt that now cover it off. My mind races to try to connect the dots, but honestly, I come up empty.
“Wait, stop touching it with your hand. Maybe we can lift a print from it. I have my bag in the car.” He shrugs.
Placing the plate on the ground, I take off my shoulder holster and remove my white T-shirt, which is now stained with dirt and leaf debris. As quickly as I removed my shoulder holster, it’s back in place, picking up the plate with my shirt, trying not to smudge anything that might give the person away.
Weeks has lifted prints many times, so I know this won’t be a hard job for him—a perk of having him on my payroll.
We make our way back to the house, Roxy now nowhere in sight. She’s a wandering dog, so I don’t worry that she won’t find her way back home.
It feels like it takes longer to get back than it did to find the hut, but once the house comes into sight, the pep in my steps picks back up.
“Take it to the island, I’ll grab my bag.” I nod to Weeks heading into the house.
The cool air inside greets me, and I moan at how good it feels on my sticky, wet skin.
Placing the plate on the island, I open my fridge, grabbing out a cold beer. Looking at the clock, it’s early, but what the hell. Popping the top, I drain the can, giving myself a brain freeze in the process. Tossing the empty can, I pull another one out, and one for Weeks.
Bending over on the island, I look at the plate like it will talk to me. Shaking my head at how brazen someone has to be to come into my home. And fucking staying on my property.
Weeks walks in with his bag in hand. “Let's get this done.” He removes his supplies: black fingerprint powder, a brush with camel-hair bristles, and lifting tape.
I stand and watch him get to work, the small brush making contact with the powder container, before he uses the rim to remove the excess, then gently he moves the brush in a circular motion over the plate’s surface as we both watch a pattern form. A few of them.
“Got ya.” Weeks smiles down at the visible fingerprints before he blows away the excess power. Meticulously, he grabs his lifting tape placing it over a fingerprint before easily removing the tape, revealing the fingerprint transferred onto it.
I watch it all in silence as he adds the tape onto a white backing card; the fingerprint preserved and ready for us to scan it.
Weeks finishes up the other two he got lifted as well. Sitting them all three on the island, he reaches for his beer, opening it and taking a big sip.
“You got the scanner?” he says as he sits the beer back down.
“Shit, let me go get it.” With everything else, that was the last thing I thought of. I was only focused on whether he could lift a print.
Running up the stairs and to my office, my safe sits behind a picture of the tree outside. Removing the picture, I scan my fingerprint, hearing my safe unlock. I keep the scanner in here because, getting caught with a specialized device like this one, they’d be asking a lot of questions.
“Weeks, come up here,” I call downstairs before I wake up my laptop and wirelessly connect to the flatbed scanner.
I roll out my chair for him, letting him have it so he can do his magic. He gets to work, while I track Rowan, seeing she is now at the funeral home, safe.
*Everything will be okay.
I send her a text, not expecting anything back from her, but surprised when she immediately responds.
*But are we?
Are we? There is so much we must work on for this to work, and fuck, do I want this to work, but is she willing to change something's too? I don’t send her that because I want to talk to her face to face. So, I type the only thing I can and feel.
