Page 88 of Spock’s Snare

“I’m not leaving them here.”

He nods and leaves the room.

I empty the dresser onto the floor. Clothes, receipts, loose change, and folded papers spill across the carpet. I kick aside shirts and jeans, searching for anything useful.

Nothing.

I tear through the closet next. Among the shoeboxes, work boots, and an old duffel bag, I find a locked metal box. I smash the lock with the butt of my gun. Inside, I find a bundle of cash and a few documents.

Hawk enters carrying a stack of mail. “Kitchen drawers were full of this shit.”

He dumps the envelopes onto the mattress.

I grab half the stack and flip through it. Credit card statements, bank statements, and an insurance notice. Every envelope has the address of Blackwood’s apartment.

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” I growl.

“Keep looking,” Hawk says.

My hands move faster. I scan names, dates, and addresses, tossing each useless piece of mail aside.

Then I see one that doesn’t belong.

It’s a utility bill from the electric company, but the service address isn’t this one. The bill is several months old and marked paid. I read the street name twice.

“I’ve got an address.”

Rush takes the bill from me while I pull out my phone. My fingers shake so badly that I nearly hit the wrong contact.

Spark answers on the first ring. “What did you find?”

“A utility bill.” I rattle off the address. “Find out who owns the house and tell me whether Blackwood has any connection to it.”

“I’m on it.”

The rapid clatter of Spark’s keyboard fills the line.

I pace beside the bed, every second stretching until it feels like a fucking hour.

“Where is it?” Rush asks.

Hawk already has his phone out. He types in the address, then turns the screen toward us. The map shows a neighborhood several miles north of here, an older part of the city filled with aging houses and empty lots.

“Rundown area,” Hawk says. “Plenty of abandoned properties around it.”

A perfect place to hide Chloe.

“Spark,” I snap. “Talk to me.”

“I’m pulling the property records now.”

I stare at the photograph on the bed—the one of Chloe through her bedroom window. Blackwood has been watching her, planning this, convincing himself she belongs to him.

“I’ve got it,” Spark says. “The house belongs to a woman named Patricia Blackwood. Seventy-three years old.”

“His mother?”

“Yeah. Birth records confirm it. Steven Blackwood is her only child.”