Page 117 of The Deadly Shallows

“Room?” she asked, without looking up.

Why were people so unwilling to make eye contact? Eye contact was crucial in Brooke’s job. If the patient couldn’t see her intent and her reassuring gaze, they often slipped through her fingers rather than hanging on. She swallowed back stinging pain. Molly slipping through her fingers rattled Brooke’s brain and heart in painful conjunction.

“You okay?” Noah whispered.

She nodded.

“Room?” the lady asked again, still not bothering to look up.

“No, ma’am.” Noah held his badge up to the glass. “We have some questions.”

The woman’s gray brows bunched as her dim brown eyes flickered up at the shield. “Cop?” she said, squinting.

“Special Agent Noah Rowley.”

“Josh,” she called over her shoulder. “Josh!” she hollered after no one appeared.

A man about Noah’s height but probably a decade older, with mussed brown hair, stepped through a door behind the desk. Wearing a blue silk shirt and black trousers, he looked oddly out of place. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“I hope so,” Noah said, holding up his badge again. “I’m Special Agent Noah Rowley.”

“Josh,” the guy said, lifting his chin.

“Josh . . . ?”

“Gilbert.”

“Thanks, Josh. We’re hoping you can be of help. We’re looking for Dwayne.”

“Last name?” Josh asked.

“We have at least four possible last names but don’t believe any of them are accurate,” Noah said.

“Look . . .” Josh skimmed his hand slowly along the top of his hair. “We get a lot of folks in and out of here.”

“He’s tall—about my height, maybe an inch or two over. Has brown hair a few shades darker than mine, brown eyes, and a beard. Oh, and he wears a lot of patriotic T-shirts.”

“Oh yeah.” Josh nodded. “I know who you mean. He was in 3B.”

Noah released a stiff exhale. “Was?”

“Yeah. He disappeared a few months back.”

“Any idea where he went?”

“Nah.” Josh shook his head with an amused smile, as if Noah had just asked the most absurd thing. “Guys take off, don’t leave a forwarding address. You get my drift?”

“Yeah.” Noah’s jaw tightened, then he cleared his throat. “Could we look around 3B?”

“Someone else is living there now,” Josh said.

“Did he leave anything behind?”

“Rooms come furnished, so everything like that stayed.”

Brooke winced, trying not to imagine what Josh’s idea of furnished was.

“But . . .” Josh began. “I let the more long-term renters store stuff up in the attic.” He shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible he left something up there. The rule was mark your junk with your apartment number.”