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“Leaving a body behind isn’t going to make this easy,” Uriel points out.
I get into the backseat. “She’s alive and healthy.”
“Define both those words, Jude,” Uriel demands.
I can understand his hesitation in believing me but I still have to keep Eden in a bubble of my safekeeping.
“Exactly that. Breathing of her own accord and walking under her own power,” I say to them both and it’s true.
She’s safe.
For now.
Looking down into her files, I scan through all the pertinent information. Twenty-two years old, married, but her new townhouse has only her on the lease.
Dead criminal father, mother is a homeless junkie somewhere. Her soon-to-be ex-husband has gambling debts. Not so much as to warrant whoever he owes to search for him, but enough that he’s been keeping a low profile.
Checking her financial records, it’s easy to see she’s broke. Broke as can be. Either that’s by the ex-husband’s design or other unfortunate circumstances.
She needs a stable income, and that’s what the job at the club is providing her. Not that it’s much, but better than nothing, I suppose.
Although it’s odd she got the townhouse before she got the job, and I don’t see any record of previous employment.
I’ll investigate whatever’s going on with her though when we see each other next.
One thing of note, the townhouse she’s renting is owned by a company that sounds familiar.
“Does Stockton Holdings ring a bell to you gentlemen?” I ask.
“Isn’t that one of James’s property management companies?” Uriel says from up front.
That’s it, I knew I recognized it. I just couldn’t place it.
James owning the company that runs the rental property fits in a small piece of the puzzle I’m solving in my brain.
This could work out to my advantage.
I’m tempted to dial James right now, but I need to make sure that what I ask of him is kept between us.
I don’t want to risk my little angelic secret getting out.
The drive to my house to drop me off seems impossibly long. It’s like every single red light or stop sign must get in our way.
Even a fucking train crossing is lined up with traffic.
Is it possible that this is the universe’s way of telling me to slow my thoughts? To think things through and keep a clear head?
Or is it just the universe’s way of saying fuck you for finding something worthwhile?
Either way, my fingers continue to skim through her rather bland file. Nothing in here is really of merit. Her past almost entirely blank.
The only real thing of interest I can find in her file is that there was a domestic disturbance call to her home when she still lived with her ex-husband. She refused to press charges or talk to the police, beyond telling them she fell.
Those words.
Those two fucking words send heat through my veins.
She fell.
