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The building itself was just a typical penny brick former business in a part of town that never took off like the developers hoped it would, leaving everything crumbling and unkempt.
It was the kind of place you figured someone who worked as an independent filmmaker with little to no income would live.
But Rylan went ahead and took it to conspiracy theorist level by covering his windows with what seemed to be old pizza boxes.
In my head, I could practically hear Gemma saying that it was good the boxes were getting a second life since they couldn’t be recycled.
But, well, it didn’t look good.
For Rylan.
For his mental health.
If I went in there and found tinfoil on the inside, I wasn’t sure how the fuck I was going to handle the situation.
With a sigh, I climbed out of my car, making my way toward the door, going ahead and breaking the law a bit by picking the lock, not wanting him to get a chance to run off.
While I was someone who went for runs on occasion, these days, I was getting all the exercise I needed behind a locked door with Gemma.
The door opened without much of a fight. It would never cease to amaze me how people who were paranoid about some big, shady corporation and their hitmen never seemed to install a solid deadbolt. Or five.
That said, when I pushed the door, I got to know that at least this Rylan guy wasn’t a complete idiot.
I had no idea what had been leaning against the door, but as soon as I pushed on it, whatever it was went crashing to the floor. And what was inside it–judging by the sounds of things, a mixture of cans and glass bottles–went shooting all about.
On an exhale, I shoved the door, rushing inward before the guy could do anything stupid. Like figure out how to shoot a gun or grab a knife.
I found him just inside and to the left in a big space that had clearly been a storefront in another life.
The counter that had likely once housed a cash register was being used as a stand for several laptops and various lenses for a camera.
Toward the back of the room was what seemed to be a makeshift filming set with circle lights and microphones set up in front of a simple black screen.
It was low budget at best.
I couldn’t claim to be a film expert. In fact, I just wasn’t a huge fan of documentaries in general. I got enough of the ugly, harsh realities of life at work; I didn’t need it in my free time.
But I couldn’t deny, either, that it seemed that a film of any sort always benefited from something other than a shoestring budget in a building I was now starting to wonder if he was renting or simply squatting in. All the laptops and lights appeared to be hooked up to little portable electric generators or solar banks.
If you were legally renting a place, you tended to make sure at least the lights got turned on. If for nothing else, then to make your life easier. Who wanted to go out and charge their stupid generators all the time or remember to get the solar sun banks outside to charge up every day?
Rylan himself was not in great shape.
I knew that Gemma had described him as skinny and long-haired when she’d told me about him, but this was taking skinny to a whole new level. He looked like skin draped over flesh, bones sticking out at grotesque angles. His hair that she had told me was long was also hanging low with at least a week or two’s worth of grease.
Eyes that she had described to me as intense in an almost off-putting way were, well, bulging.
Sure, he’d just gotten broken into. A strange guy was now standing there wanting God-knew-what from him.
But this wasn’t a normal fear bulging. I’d seen enough of that in my life to recognize it when it was looking me in the face.
This was the look of a man losing his fucking mind little by little, someone consumed by his obsession.
That, too, was something I had seen more than a few times in my life. Unfortunately.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked, scrambling backward, fumbling for a metal bat that was propped against the counter, knocking it on the floor before retrieving it. When he finally lifted it, he brandished it like it was the most lethal weapon the world had ever known, clearly oblivious to the fact that I could have him disarmed and out cold in the span it would take him to draw in a breath.
“Lincoln,” I told him, waiting for it to click. Which took entirely too long, to be honest.
“What do you want?”
“I am here to tell you that Gemma is done.”
