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Eureka. The phone is at an address in Brighton Beach, and I bet Art is there too.
My phone pings.
It’s Blue, who’s discovered the same thing I just did but a few seconds too late.
Okay. That settles it. I book a ride to Brighton Beach.
* * *
I approach the building that is my destination, and my heart sinks. The sign above it says “Easy Fume,” but I have been mentally calling this “the taranka place” and then gagging afterward.
In hindsight, it makes sense he’d be here. He said this is where he goes when he’s stressed. Also, his not picking up his phone or answering texts makes sense now. He probably left his phone in a locker.
Maybe I should wait here?
No.
I have to fix this, ASAP. He could be in there, spanking another woman right now.
Not on my watch.
I take deep breaths in an effort to saturate my blood with oxygen. Hopefully, I can hold my breath for a while and thus not smell the horror as I rush in.
When I feel almost lightheaded from the crazy breathing, I open the door.
Now or never.
I stride into the fishy stink.
