Page 29 of Plain Sight

I do a little corporate breaking and entering for the shell companies, then switch back to private homes.

I start to lose time.

A little bit, here and there. Not surprising, given that we’re not far out from the anniversary. Not surprising, given that my brain feels like it might fall into two separate halves at any second.

I’m thinking about a silver wedding ring in a pile of ash when I realize somebody’s looking at me.

It’s the woman in the bed. Her husband is on a business trip. His flight schedule was on the fridge, held there with a magnet in the shape of the Eiffel Tower. This lady can’t be more than sixty.

She lies absolutely still. Her wide eyes are mostly whites, and she breathes so shallowly that she could be a statue. Oh, she’s scared.

I put my finger over my lips in the universal sign for shh and leave, her husband’s records on the jump drive in my pocket.

I don’t own a gun.

I’m going through a home office in an empty apartment—very empty, since these people are spending the summer in the Hamptons—a gun safe in the corner of the room, when I remember I don’t have one.

Someday, I’m going to find Malcolm Walsh, and I’m going to kill him.

It still doesn’t feel good to think about that. To think about being a killer.

Is it the gun thing I don’t like?

Maybe a knife would be better.

Yeah. A knife seems better. I need more options than just my bare hands.

Jamie, my mom says.

“Don’t worry about it.” I jiggle the mouse on the office’s desktop computer. People are so lazy about passwords on these. “Trust me, Mom. Everything’s going to be fine.”

It doesn’t feel good to you.

“Well, no, but letting him kill Lily doesn’t feel good, either.

Did you tell your brothers and sister yet?

“Tell them what?”

To call you by the name I gave you.

“They call me Jameson every single day. You gave me that name, too. I haven’t given up on you. You’re going to see, once I’m done. You’ll see how safe Lily is.”

Jamie.

“Please, Mom.”

She’s quiet.

“Did he say anything?”

“Who?” Water from the shower runs down over Lily’s face, catching in her eyelashes like a summer rainstorm.

“The Good Samaritan.”

“Not a word.” She purses her lips. “So quiet.”

“Did Walsh say anything?”