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CHAPTER18
Ethan
“What are we doing way down in south Seattle?” my assistant Jenn complained. “You already bailed on the morning appointments. Which, by the way, makes me look like a total flake. But we can’t bail on lunch with Senator Brickell! Canlis is way up there in East Queen Anne, so let’s move! No time to waste!”
“Not yet. There’s a thing I need to do here.” Trey was driving, and I was watching the Rainier Beach neighborhood roll by. I’d canceled all my morning engagements, to Jenn’s intense dismay. I had decided that a visit to the Fletchley Building to get some answers from the security staff was more urgent, but Jenn hadn’t quite comprehended my shift in priorities yet. The process took some time.
Not that we’d gotten much info at Fletchley. Their whole roster had been wiped out by a violent stomach bug the day before, a pathogen so severe, some of them had ended up in the hospital, including the guy responsible for staffing. He hadn’t even been discharged yet, and some of the ones back at work were still a little green. Not a one of them had the slightest clue what had happened to us yesterday.
Not surprisingly, the security footage had also vanished. And no one in the building had called the police, except for a few complaints that had trickled in this morning about property damage to the cars.
The trap had been laid with extreme care and forethought. They had thought of everything, except for Kat, and left almost no trace. I was grateful that I’d left my guys circling outside in the van. We would have suffered heavy losses if they had come into the garage to wait for me, and gotten trapped in there.
“If we really floor it and get lucky with the lights, we might get to Canlis on time for lunch with the senator.” Jenn’s voice was tight. “You’re acting almost as if you want to be late! What is up with you? I can’t work like this!”
I thought of several sharp replies, abandoned them, and shook my head. “Back off, Jenn.”
Her mouth fell open. “But I—”
“I appreciate your dedication to organizing my professional life. That’s why I pay you an excellent salary and bonus. I’ll be back out soon. This won’t take long.”
I ignored her muttering as I got out of the car and looked at the tiny, rundown house Kat rented in Rainier Beach. It was on a shabby, raggedy-edged, pot-holed street with no sidewalk. There was a chain-link fence in front and back. The exterior had not been painted in many long years, but it probably used to be gray. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for here, but I had to start somewhere.
The door lock was a joke. I didn’t even need my pick. My credit card got me inside in just a few seconds. She clearly didn’t prioritize security.
Then again, her hands could probably be registered as lethal weapons.
I stepped into the foyer, looked into the tiny living room. It smelled fresh, like lavender and pine. The ancient wooden flooring was battered and scarred, but it shone. The place had been painted recently. The Venetian blinds showed not a speck of dust. There was a wingback chair in the living room, positioned in front of a thrift shop coffee table with a small, old laptop on it. A single simple floor lamp. No pictures on the walls, no shelves, no books or knickknacks. No decorative bowl to drop her keys, no hook for her coat or scarf. There were envelopes on the floor under the mail slot, but no other signs of paper clutter. No receipts, coupons, brochures, take-out menus. The only thing that indicated the place was hers was rigorous cleanliness, which was very much in character.
Wow. Forget minimalism. This was more like nothing-ism.
I strolled through the place. The bedroom had a single twin bed, made up as tight as a drum with a fuzzy blue fleece blanket, a rare note of whimsy. Workout clothes hung on the bathroom hook. No jewelry box. No concert tickets, or postcards, or photos, or metro tickets tacked to the walls or tucked in the mirror. No carpet, just a rolled up rubberized exercise mat. An absolute minimum of toiletries in the bathroom. A stack of gray towels. Soap and shampoo in the shower. The cabinet over the sink was close to empty. Just toothpaste, floss, deodorant, nail clippers, a comb, Advil. It was monastic. Starker than a hotel room. Hotels at least tried, in their tired way, to simulate a decor. This place had anti-décor, which was a statement in itself.
The kitchen was more of the same. The cupboards had two of each type of dish or plate. A single pot, a single frying pan. The fridge was nearly bare. Some yogurt, some sliced turkey. A loaf of bread. A carton of milk.
She had tried to give no clues about who lived here, but the intensity of her effort had created the opposite effect. This place said so much about who she was.
Then again, perhaps only someone as fascinated by her as I was could decipher it.
I looked at the tiny table, the mismatched chairs. Anger grew hot inside me at whoever had reduced her to this. The house demonstrated everything that had been taken from her, everything she’d trained herself to uncomplainingly live without. It also showed her toughness, which could not be taken away. It was an intrinsic part of her.
It wasn’t right that she had to live such a stripped-down life. She deserved more.
I heard a soft sound, and looked around several times before I directed my gaze downward. A fat gray cat had slithered in through the cat door. He looked up, clearly taken aback to find me there.
“I come in peace,” I told him.
He made a disapprovingprrt, and then stalked haughtily, tail high, to a small pantry, which had probably been left open on purpose for him. I heard subsequent crunching sounds. She had a cat. That was interesting.
I was jolted again when I heard a key rattling in the back door. It opened, and a young woman stepped inside. “Ambrose, you have food at home, you miserable beast! The kind I can barely afford. So don’t you even try to—ohshit!Who…?”
I held up my hands. “I’m harmless, I swear. Don’t be scared.”
A young woman stood there, frozen. She wore workout clothes, her long dark hair was twisted into an explosive messy bun. She looked frightened. “Who the hell are you?” Her voice was sharp and tight with nerves. “Why are you in Kat’s house?”
“I just dropped by to pick up some things for her,” I improvised. “She’s fine.”’
“Yeah? She never came home from work! And her phone keeps going to voicemail! How fine can she be? Where the hell is she?”
