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“You’re family. We go to war for family.”
“You big fuckin’ sap. Love you, bro.”
“Shut up. Go be a badass.”
Saluting him with a crooked grin, I get out of the car and act like I belong here.
The house is quaint, with blue shingles and a porch. It
pisses me off how easily Coleman gets to blend in when he’s a fucking creep preying on young girls. Who knows how many? The thought turns my stomach. I’m here for a locket, so I can only guess Thea isn’t the only honey pot he’s tried dipping his claws in.
Gritting my teeth, I check if anyone’s around before I slip toward the back door to pick the lock.
Blair let me borrow her kit of picks and drilled me until I could pick Coleman’s brand of lock with my eyes closed. It comes in handy that Dev’s girl has a history of criminal tendencies. I kneel at the back door and get started, carefully working it until the knob gives way.
“Gotcha.” Tucking away the tools, I step inside, leaving the lights off and illuminating the way with my phone.
The inside of Coleman’s house tells a much different story than the charming young teacher persona he puts on at school. My lip curls as I move through the dated kitchen to a living room with grime-stained walls. This place looks fine from the outside, but it’s a shithole. He must’ve got it real cheap because it looks like it was a crack den. Empty take out containers and instant dinner dishes sit around, making the place smell rank. They’re at least two days old.
“Fucking gross,” I grumble, scanning the room.
There are no signs of a partner or roommates. The place is sparsely furnished. Every inch of the house screams shut in bachelor.
Coleman clearly spends a lot of time on his computer. It’s a setup like mine and the only corner of the room that seems frequently used. A serious system with big monitors, like a skeevy command base. I picture him sitting there typing that shit to Thea and ball my fists to control the wave of fury crashing over me. Blowing out a breath, I cross to the computer and tap a key.
The display wakes up and I smirk. “Thanks for the easy access.”
I plug in an encrypted drive and type in a keyboard shortcut to bring up a command prompt window, giving me admin control. With a few more keystrokes, his hard drive is downloading for me. While that’s running, I head into the other rooms to search for the necklace and hunt down anything else I can find.
The house is a single floor bungalow, so there are only so many places for Coleman to hide his sinister corruption. I start with the bedroom, which makes me gag.
Black silk sheets? Is he fucking kidding?
As the creep factor climbs, so does my anger. I take pictures of everything to paint the image of Harold K. Coleman, perverted douchebag degenerate. The darkest monster I’ve ever met. Considering the secrets I know of the people in this town, that’s saying something.
“Going to have to shower eighty goddamn times to get the vibe of this place off me.”
The closet has nothing interesting, so I try the bureau, pulling drawers out and rifling through ratty pairs of sweatpants and stained graphic t-shirts. What a man-child.
When I don’t find anything, I’m about to look under the bed, but the third drawer down on the left makes me pause. The grain on the bottom of the drawer is a shade off from the others. I shine the flashlight from my phone closer, furrowing my brow. I pull out the drawer on the right side to compare, putting my hands in both.
“Shit.”
The one on the left is slightly higher. It’s a fake bottom. I take out the stacks of clothes, taking care not to mess up the order so Coleman doesn’t suspect anything. There’s a tiny tab at the back. When I pull on it, I’m able to remove the false cover.
My heart stops.
A row of necklaces sits in the drawer on black velvet. All matching.
At first I suck in a breath, thinking I’ve found the locket. But no, these aren’t silver. They’re gold plated. Cheap. Each heart pendant sits on a slip of paper with Coleman’s handwriting.
Girl’s names.
These are disgusting collars of ownership for every girl Coleman is manipulating. He probably sends them as gifts to make the girls feel special, when he’s got six other duplicates. If they feel doted on, he must have an easier time controlling them to do whatever he wants.
Acidic bile rushes up my throat.
“Jesus fucking christ.” My teeth clench hard enough to crack.
