Page 20 of Cozen

Otherwise, it was just plain foolish not to look into someone’s past. No one needed that kind of trouble at the end of the day.

Jett was welcomed to try to find whatever he wanted where Sargon and his life was concerned. There was nothing to find on this continent, really. His parents made sure of that, and it had served him well over the years.

Sargon Makri did not exist in any official capacity. Supposedly dead like his Iranian parents, or something like that. Sometimes he went by the name he had been given at birth, and other times, he used the name his parents gave him to help him blend in.

What did it matter?

He didn’t exist.

April 9th, 2013

Mostly empty floors and bare walls stared back at Cozen. The lower Manhattan apartment was going to cost her a pretty penny every month, but it was still considered affordable given New York rental rates.

It wasn’t the kind of apartment—she didn’t even like apartments—that Cozen would typically go for personally, but this wasn’t personal. It was a job. She needed a place right in the city because she knew that was where Jett Griffin spent most of his days, and did the vast majority of his business.

She intended to, over time or sooner, put herself directly in his path, and work her way closer from there. It could be quick, or it could take time.

In between, Cozen didn’t necessarily need to like or love the place she would call home. No, she simply needed a decent roof over her head that would not draw suspicion. This wasn’t her first rodeo—not even her tenth.

The apartment wasn’t anything particularly good to look at, but a person couldn’t scoff at it, either. Light-toned hardwood floors, and beige walls. Freshly painted a week ago, according to the landlord. The one-bedroom apartment had been cleaned at some point. Bleach and lemon still clung to the air.

Cozen gave them points for that.

Not for much else, though.

Other than a basic kitchen table with two chairs, a small loveseat sitting in front of a nineteen-inch flat screen, and a box spring and mattress resting on metal rails in the bedroom, this place had no furniture. There wasn’t even a cheap piece of art on the walls, and one of the taps in the bathroom had made an awful creak when Cozen checked it.

Apparently, this was considered furnished.

And up-to-date.

Cozen made a noise under her breath, and dismissed that notion. This place was not even close to being furnished, and it definitely needed some work. She couldn’t see herself putting much time in to the place by way of fixing things, but she did have a taste for spaces that comforted her.

She might decorate.

Depending on how long she stayed, that was.

“Black and white, I think,” Cozen murmured to herself.

She loved that style.

The little bungalow in California sitting on a private beach property overlooking the ocean where she called home came to mind. With its black and white interior, and simplistic bohemian inspired pieces scattered throughout the small rooms, it was the picture of peace and Zen. Cozen was always trying to mimic that style wherever she had to stay, even if only in little ways.

“Black and white?”

The unexpected—yet not unfamiliar—voice made Cozen spin on her heel with the intention of protecting herself. She was already reaching for the knife she had tucked into a sheath and hidden beneath her black lace bralette.

At the sight of the old landlord leaning in the apartment’s front door, Cozen let her arm fall back to her side. In his late fifties, a little too round in his middle, and always wearing a wide, warm smile, the landlord of the building was harmless. He lived on the bottom floor—Cozen was on the second at the far end with an escape ladder right outside the living room window—and according to other tenants she spoke to, he liked to make his rounds.

A little too friendly, sure.

But harmless.

Cozen could handle the rest.

“How’re you liking the place?” Ronald asked.

Cozen shrugged, and turned back to look at the apartment. “It’s a little lonely looking.”