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I start the car and get us moving, taking that first left and waiting for E.A. to give me the next instruction.
“Oh, right,” he mutters. “Straight ahead for fifty yards. Then there should be a crossing where you need to take another left.”
He doesn’t seem overly comfortable with the navigation task, but he’s not terrible at it.
I’ve had friends who’ve missed important parts and gotten us lost before.
His lack of confidence in what he’s reading versus what we can see outside is nothing compared to being told to take a left two turns after the actual left I should have taken.
“Wow, this place is kind of fancy,” I tell him as I drive past the kind of houses that must be owned by the richest professionals who work in Cressidan City, and the landscape is full of million-dollar homes for as far as my eyes can see, at least.
Holy shit. It’s like the rich neighborhood encompasses the entire town.
“Is this what all Cressidan Grove is like?” I ask E.A.
He smiles. “Pretty much.”
“Yikes,” I murmur.
My beaten-up old car looks like an eyesore compared to the gleaming Mercedes and Jaguars we keep driving past. I’ll be lucky if it doesn’t get towed away while we’re questioning our suspect.
“Crossing coming up,” E.A. points out. “There’s the left you need to take.”
I follow his instructions, and he looks back at the tablet.
“Straight ahead for a couple streets, past the play park and the fountain.”
The common areas are completely pristine and empty.
That playpark looks as if it’s never been used.
The fountain’s a decorative feature in the centre of several rows of benches and potted plants.
None of it’s been ruined. This place is definitely completely jam-packed full of filthy rich people.
We see an older woman out walking her corgi, but otherwise the streets seem pretty empty, as well as looking like they’ve been power-washed clean.
“Take a right up here and we should be on Orchard Avenue. Thirty-three should be on the right near the turn in so you could park right there.”
“Perfect,” I murmur as I take the turn and park.
My car is the only one not sitting in a driveway. It’s also the only one that looks like it doesn’t belong. I probably don’t look much better in my old jeans and sweater. My hair’s a wavy mess from letting it airdry yesterday, and I know I look tired, too. Another side effect of getting closer to forty, I guess.
I can’t go to bed late and expect to get up early without looking zombified.
Not that any of that matters right now.
We’re not here to socialize.
I take off my seat belt. “How do we do this?”
E.A. picks up my purse and puts the tablet back inside.
“We ask to speak to this guy,” he says, looking at my phone as if he needs to remind himself of his name. “Marcus Hamilton. I’ll take the lead. You hang back. Considering his file, we need to be a little wary.”
“Right. He has angry outbursts.”
“We might get the door slammed in our faces.”
