Page 56 of Sinister Secrets

Given that it’s Sunday, it’s no surprise when a recording requesting that I call back during business hours or leave a message plays in my ear, but I don’t intend to let that stop me. Grabbing my purse and keys, I storm outside to my car, a woman on a mission. I have no idea what I expect to discover, only that I’ll never find out if I don’t try.

CHAPTER 31

I find the duplex tucked away on the back street of a rundown neighborhood starting to turn seedy. Spray paint decorates the street signs. A filthy mattress lies discarded at the edge of the road. The trio of men loitering on the corner stop their conversation to watch me drive by, their eyes holding equal parts interest and contempt, compelling me to travel past my destination until I lose their attention.

Looping around the cul-de-sac, I return to the home rented by Greg Moore, parking at the curb. Strap my purse on crossbody, check the familiar weight of the firearm at my side, and exit the vehicle.

The yard is mostly dirt and weeds. The sidewalk is cracked and crumbling. Though the unit on the left has a flowerpot on the front porch, a faded doormat, and bamboo windchimes clanking soothingly against each other, the right side has a distinctly abandoned feel—almost as if it knows its tenant won’t be returning.

I keep a close eye on my surroundings as I approach the building, checking for curious gazes peeking from between blinds, surveillance cameras tucked into any nooks or crannies, dried leaves or dirt spread along the littered stoop, anything that would betray my presence here today.

Satisfied that there’s nothing, I knock as if I’m expected. Let a minute pass, then two, before trying again. Pull out my phone and feign dialing. Frown down at the device before slipping it back into my pocket and sidestepping over to the window.

“Greg?” Bracketing my face with my hands, I peer inside. No lights are on. All I can see is a threadbare couch that’s seen better days and a cardboard box serving as an end table beside it. Tapping on the glass, I try again, “Greg, it’s me. Let me in.”

Satisfied that no one’s home, I make my way around the side of the duplex, checking for footprints in the dirt, trash in the battered bin, any signs that the unit is occupied, but there are none. A glimpse through the bedroom window reveals a mattress on the floor, sheets and a pillow scattered on top, another cardboard box serving as a nightstand beside it, but no personal belongings.

There are no clothes visible, nor any furniture to store them in. No phone charger plugged into any of the outlets I can see. Not a scrap of mail or a stray receipt—nothing.

Passing by the air conditioning condenser, I give it a close inspection. A vine has wound its way through the coil. A thick layer of grime coats the fan. The skeletonized remains of a lizard adhere to one of the blades. This thing hasn’t kicked on in a while.

A crush of disappointment tightens my jaw. I’d been so sure that this was where Gordon had been hiding, but I was wrong. There’s no way he spent any length of time here, not without running the AC. To be honest, I’m starting to have my doubts that he had any connection to the place at all.

Maybe the bank statement in Greg Moore’s name was exactly that—a statement for an account owned by a man with the name. It’s possible Gordon had the printout as proof of funds for a real estate purchase. That another Greg Moore lived at this duplex last year when his neighbor was hit and killed but has since moved on. That he either abandoned the sparse furnishings, or a squatter brought them in.

My molars ache, grinding together at the thought of hitting another dead end. Of the satisfaction it would bring Sheriff Kingston to know that I had failed.

It’s that last bit that keeps me moving forward. Spite can be a wonderful motivator.

Reaching the back of the duplex, I cross a barren patio made of pavers and look through the last window into a kitchen. Just like the rest of the place, there’s no sign that it’s in use. Not a single dirty dish or balled-up napkin litters the kitchen.

So that’s it then. Nothing left to do but admit defeat.

Sighing heavily, I’m mid-turn when I hear it. A faint, electrical hum. Tilting my head, I try bringing the sound into better focus. As I do, my gaze lands on one of the weeds that has sprouted through the seams between the paving stones, bent at a broken angle. Looking beyond it, I spot several more.

My muscles tense as I track the path with my eyes. Someone besides me has walked through here recently. And whoever it was went straight to the back entrance.

I creep forward, careful to step on the stones, checking for evidence. Pulling a nitrile glove from my pocket, I use it to twist the doorknob. It’s locked. But this close, the noise that had drawn my attention in the first place is louder. Clearer. And definitely coming from inside. There’s electricity running, which means that someone’s been paying the bill.

I need in this duplex.

A surge of adrenaline energizes me as I study the door. There’s a single keyhole, centered in the knob. It’s the kind you twist to lock. The kind without a deadbolt. The kind that would give with one swift kick, and judging by the looks of the dry-rotted jamb, it wouldn’t even take that. A solid hip bump might do.

My teeth find my lip, digging in as I debate. Two minutes. I’m confident that’s all I’d need to satisfy my curiosity. To determine if the duplex warrants a more thorough search. But if it does… I release a sigh that sounds like a hiss.

If it does, and I’ve already broken in, then the integrity of any evidence we’d potentially discover inside would be ruined. A prosecutor would be able to argue that I’d planted whatever we found, meaning anything that might help clear my name would serve to implicate me, instead.

Frustration growls low in my throat. I can’t risk it. In fact, I shouldn’t even be here right now.

Spinning around, I search for prying eyes, but the six-foot privacy fence that frames the yard seems to be doing its job. Still, I keep my head down as I hurry back around front to my car. Get behind the wheel and start the engine. As I put the car in gear, I cast a final look at the duplex.

“I’ll be back.”

It’s not a promise, but a threat. I know there’s a secret hiding within those walls, and whatever it is, I plan on finding it.

CHAPTER 32

From the moment I wake, I know that something eventful is on the horizon. The sky glowers, grey and threatening. The morning is stuffy and still, as if the very air is holding its breath in fear of what the day will bring. And though the dark cloud that seems to chase me on the drive into town carries the scent of rain, that’s not the storm I anticipate breaking by the end of the day.