Page 32 of Only the Hunter

Evie

My phone vibrates as I pull into the parking lot of Bee’s Liquor Store. I ignore the message from Gabriel Martin and flick to navigation, double-checking the address Daniel Price sent me after he finally reached out.

This can’t be right.

Across the street, a one-story brick building sits—no business signs, no street numbers visible from here. To my right, a faded billboard advertising last year’s RV show blocks my view of what might be a house or a business. The asphalt stretches from the liquor store parking lot all the way to the street corner. A mix of dead weeds and brown blades of grass fill the cracks.

I scan for street numbers on the liquor store. Even. The building Daniel wants to meet at is an odd number—definitely that side of the street.

There’s no traffic, so I zip across the pavement and park in front of the brick building. Four metal steps lead up to an unmarked door. I take in the faded parking lines and broken asphalt. This isn’t the professional setting I expected from an FBI supervisory special agent. I triple-check the address. This has to be the place.

I shoot Daniel a text: I’m here.

The moment I hit send, I regret it. If someone’s monitoring our communication—and given everything that’s happened, someone might be—I’ll have to answer for this in a deposition. I should’ve used an encrypted app.

Damn it.

Oh well, can’t undo it.

I step up to the door and try the stainless-steel knob. It’s locked. I rap my knuckles against the metal, creating a dull thud that reverberates through my hand. There’s no way anyone is hearing me. So I step back and kick the door.

Once.

A second time.

A third.

The resulting thud is louder than my hand. But the only way someone will hear it is if they’re near the door.

An old Cadillac with a faded paint job rumbles past. I watch as the wheel hits a pothole, sending a spray of dirty water to the curb.

There’s no response from Daniel on my phone, so I lift my leg to kick, and the door opens outwards.

I catch my foot in time, but still wobble, off balance. Daniel holds an arm out to catch me, but I catch myself.

“Evie,” is all he says.

“Agent Price.”

He holds the door for me to enter. “Thank you for meeting me here. This place is mostly empty midday.”

“What is it?”

I enter into a hollowed-out shell of a building with windows on the far side, but they’re up high, like basement windows. Daniel doesn’t stop, walking through the building that I imagine must have once been used for manufacturing. He opens a door and we enter into a small windowless office.

“What is this place?” I repeat as I take a seat in front of an old metal desk. The chair has a metal frame and a leather pad. The furniture feels like it’s from the fifties or sixties.

“It’s a property we use from time to time. Surveillance ops. When we need a private place to question someone.”

I’m not sure if it’s due to his words, or his tone, but my skin crawls and I find myself wishing I’d brought my handbag so I’d have my mace.

He leans back in the chair behind the desk, and the chair creaks with his weight. His silver-framed glasses glint beneath the overhead light. I’ve met Daniel Price before, over a year ago. Our meetings since have all been via telephone. He’s grown a moustache, and he’s lost some weight, but his posture in the chair shows his middle still stretches the fabric of his shirt.

“To be clear, if someone asks, I’ll likely deny meeting with you.”

“Why?” Wait, that doesn’t even matter. “Why did it take so long for you to respond to me?”

“I’m off the case.” He raps the desk with his knuckle. “So are you.”