Scenes from the Hallway

by Penny Reid

  Scenes from the Hallway

  Knitting in the City Book #6.5

  Penny Reid

  http://www.pennyreid.ninja

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living, dead, or undead), events, or locales is entirely coincidental, if not somewhat disturbing and/or concerning.

  Copyright © 2018 by Penny Reid; All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

  Caped Publishing

  Made in the United States of America

  Kindle Edition: February 2018

  Contents

  Scene One

  Scene Two

  Scene Three

  Scene Four

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  About the Author

  Other books by Penny Reid

  Scene One

  Who the fuck is that?

  **Dan**

  The elevator went ding, the doors opened, I strolled out.

  First thing I noticed was the narrowness of the hallway. The next thing I noticed was the open stairway to my right, the smell of damp, and the water stain on the ceiling. What a shithole.

  “Check the locks on the windows.”

  “Got it.” I moved the cell to my other ear, rolling my eyes.

  Quinn was barking orders over the phone. And when Quinn barked orders there was nothing to do but say, Got it, or, Right, or, Sounds good. What did he think? That I didn’t know enough about security procedures to test the integrity of window locks when checking the perimeter of an apartment? Give me a fucking break.

  He wasn’t thinking clearly because lately he was only thinking about one thing—or rather, one person.

  I hated these old apartment buildings, the ones built in the late fifties, early sixties. The elevators hardly ever worked and the stairways were too tight. Without fail, a pipe in the ceiling leaked on every single goddamn floor, making the whole building smell like the cellar of my Uncle Zip’s place.

  Not a good smell.

  My eyes flickered over Stan and Davis as they straightened away from the wall by the apartment door—second one on the right—coming to attention as soon as I appeared.

  “And check the cellar. When I was there on Saturday, the lock on the subbasement was broken. Stan said he’d get it fixed,” Quinn said, still barking orders.

  Apparently, we were now going to be the superintendent for every building in Chicago. “Fine.”

  I didn’t tell Quinn that my brother’s crew was too stupid to consider the subbasement as an entry point. If Seamus’s guys showed up, they would come in through the front door in broad daylight, like a bunch of thumbs-up-their-asses dumbfucks.

  Long story short, my good buddy and business partner Quinn Sullivan was under some kind of voodoo spell, thinking he was in love with this woman, Janie Morris. Janie had a sister named Jem, and Jem Morris used to bang my brother, Seamus. Small world, right?

  Anyway, Jem stole a shit load of money from Seamus and left him high and dry in Boston. My brother sent a few of his guys here, to Chicago, to track Jem down, which led them to Janie. These geniuses had mistaken Janie for Jem.

  Are you with me so far?

  I didn’t know Janie well, but I knew Jem. Jem was an asshole, violent, and nuttier than a peanut butter sandwich. So here we were, trying to keep Janie safe from Seamus’s crew while also trying to keep Janie safe from her own sister.

  “Janie lives here?” I sneered at the peeling wallpaper—which also reminded me of my Uncle Zip’s place—and the flickering fluorescent light in the stairwell. Not only was it a shithole, it was a creepy-as-fuck shithole.

  “No, it’s her friend Sandra’s place, the psychiatrist.” Then under his breath Quinn added, “Sandra needs to move.”

  Giving Stan and Davis a brief nod in greeting, I turned to inspect the path I’d taken, noting the empty glass box by the elevator where a fire extinguisher was supposed to be. Real nice.

  “Stan is there, right?” Quinn asked.

  I looked at Stan. “Yeah. He’s here.”

  “Ask him if Janie noticed him following her.”

  “You don’t want her to see us?” I inspected this Sandra person’s door, two deadbolts. But the door was made of fiberglass. Deadbolts weren’t good for jackshit in a fiberglass door.

  “No, it’s fine if she sees you. But don’t spook her.”

  “Spook her? What do you think I’m going to do? Wear a hockey mask, borrow a knife, and go for a slow stroll around her friend’s apartment?”

  Quinn made a sound like he was frustrated. “Try to . . . Don’t make her feel watched.”

  “Fine.” I rubbed my temple, glaring at the carpet, not sure if I was looking at a brown carpet or one that used to be white, but due to a series of unfortunate and disgusting events was now brown. “We’ll try to make ourselves invisible.”

  “Give me an update when you see her.”

  “Fine.”

  “Call if you see Jem.”

  “Okay.”

  “Text when Janie leaves.”

  “Got it.”

  “I want you to be the one shadowing her.”

  “Right.”

  “And—”

  Cheese and fucking rice.

  “Do you want me to let you know what she eats and how long she takes in the bathroom?” I shared a look with Stan, shaking my head. The other guard smirked.

  Whatever spell Janie Morris had cast over my oldest friend must’ve been some powerful shit. I’d never seen Quinn like this before. Not once. Nothing even remotely close.

  The few sentences Janie Morris and I had swapped over the past short weeks gave me no insight as to why Quinn was behaving like she was his VIP. She seemed like a nice person, smart, but also—if I’m being honest—a little weird.

  Mostly, she was tall. Real tall. Real, real tall. And had crazy hair.

  “Dan.” Quinn growled my name, like he was losing patience.

  “Listen, I got it. Okay? We’ll do a good job. She’ll be safe. We won’t spook her. Gotta go.”

  He let out a loud breath, but before he could say anything, I ended the call.

  Stuffing the phone in my back pocket, I glanced between Davis and Stan, “I swear to God, if I ever act like this about anyone, you have my permission to send a search party out for my balls.”

  That earned me a few chuckles and Davis handed me a tablet. “Here. These are the background checks on the knitters.”

  “On the what?” I took the tablet but didn’t look at it.

  “The knitters,” Stan repeated for Davis, saying this real slow, which earned him an exasperated look from me.

  “I heard what he said, Stan. I just don’t know what Davis talking about. What do you mean ‘knitters?’”

  “There’s seven of them and they meet every Tuesday to knit, taking turns hosting at each of their apartments. Janie Morris, Dr. Elizabeth Finney, Dr. Sandra Fielding—”

  “Two doctors?” I was swiping through the info while Davis had been rattling off the names.

  “Dr. Finney is an emergency medicine doctor, and Dr. Fielding is a psychiatrist.” He showed me their pictures.

  “And this is her place? The shrink?” I gestured to our surroundings.

  “Yes. This is Dr. Fielding’s apartment.” Davis nodded, tapping the screen until a picture of a redheaded lady with short hair and green eyes displayed.<
br />
  My eyebrows jumped because Dr. Sandra Fielding had a nice smile, big and playful. Maybe this assignment wouldn’t be so bad.

  “Here’s the next one.” Davis swiped to the next image, paused, then said, “Ashley Winston.”

  “What’s her name again?” This question came from Stan, who was now looking over my shoulder, leaning in real close.

  “Ashley Winston.” Davis repeated, using his finger to shift the display up, showing more details about her. “Used to be in beauty pageants when she was a teenager in Tennessee, has six brothers, graduated with honors. Now she’s an advanced registered nurse practitioner and works in the pediatric ICU.”

  I sent Stan a look. “Stop humping my leg, Stan. This isn’t a dating website. These women are off limits.”

  The guard shrugged, stepping away. “What? What’d I do?”

  “You’re breathing down my neck like you’re planning to grope something.”

  He rolled his eyes, shoving his hands in his pockets while I turned my attention back to the tablet. “Is that it?”

  “No.” Davis motioned for me to swipe right again and a new picture came up. “This one is interesting.”

  “And the others weren’t?” Stan was now leaning against the wall, his hands still in his pockets. The doofus was sulking.

  I ignored him and instead studied the picture in front of me: female, mid-thirties, big brown eyes, short hair. “Why is this one interesting?”

  “Fiona Archer. She’s ex-CIA.”

  My eyes flew to Davis. “Get the fuck out.”

  “No. She is. And she used to be a competitive gymnast.” Davis moved the file to show her background details.

  “This is nuts.” I took a minute to read about this woman named Fiona Archer. Next came a picture of her husband and her two kids. “She’s married?”

  “Yes. She’s the only one in the group who is married. But Marie Harris, who is next,” he swiped the screen, showing me a picture of a blonde lady and then a dark-haired guy, “is in a long-term relationship with a man named David Wells.”

  I studied their profiles, quickly reading the details, and frowned. “David Wells is a chef.”

  “That’s right,” Davis confirmed.

  “Why’s he so skinny then?” I arched an eyebrow. “Doesn’t his food taste any good?”

  “Never trust a skinny chef,” Stan said, nodding like the words were nuggets of solid gold.

  I happened to agree with him.

  “Anyone else?” I slid my finger across the screen and came to another profile, but this one had no picture. I read out loud, “Kat Tanner. Why no picture?”

  “No picture on file.” Davis gave me a look that had me thinking he was excited about something.

  “What? No driver’s license or passport?”

  “Not that we could find. At first.” Davis took the tablet from me, scrolling upwards. “But look at this—”

  Just then, the elevator went ding, announcing its arrival, and we all tensed, turning our attention to the lift. Stan straightened from the hall, his hand moving inside his jacket. Likewise, my hand inched towards my gun and I turned sideways, bracing myself.

  I hoped it was my brother.

  I hoped that sheisty motherfucker had decided to come to Chicago himself.

  I hoped I’d get the chance to beat the shit out of him. Again.

  But it wasn’t Seamus.

  It was a woman.

  Her head was bent. She was looking at something in her bag, a curtain of long, silky, brown hair obscuring her face. I took note of her super tidy appearance. She was wearing brown loafers, khaki pants that looked like they’d been ironed within an inch of their life, a white button-down shirt—also aggressively ironed—and a green button up sweater that wasn’t buttoned. I relaxed, deciding she couldn’t be one of Seamus’s crew. None of those fuckers knew how to iron.

  Walking three steps and out of the elevator, she pulled a smaller bag from her bigger bag and finally looked up, taking another step before stopping short as soon as she spotted us.

  Big, dark eyes rimmed with shock moved over our trio. Her lips parted, all the color drained from her face. I got the sense she was debating whether or not to turn around and run back into the elevator.

  Hmm. Interesting.

  She didn’t. Instead, she straightened her spine, pushed her shoulders back, lifted her chin along with an eyebrow, and strolled forward.

  Okay, let me stop here, because I gotta admit something: I was still distracted by her immaculate pants. I mean, these pants were cotton khaki for fuck’s sake, and were completely free of wrinkles except for the purposeful crease down the front. As someone who’d ironed his own suit shirts for the last several years, I found this super impressive. Either she’d just put them on in the elevator from a hanger she’d been carrying around all day, or she was wearing a magical pair of pants, or she had magical ironing skills. I’m just saying, her pants were impressive.

  Crossing her arms as she approached, the woman’s cool gaze came to rest on me. The challenge there had the fine hairs on the back of my neck coming to attention.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  This tone of hers—all cold and sardonic, like she already knew what I was going to say and she just knew she wasn’t going to like it—caught me off guard. It shouldn’t have, given the fact she was looking at me like I’d just wrinkled her pants.

  Also catching me off guard? She was young. Maybe twenty-five, tops. I’d never met a twenty-five-year-old who wore loafers, aggressively ironed khakis, oxfords, and cardigans. I thought those were reserved for fashionable grandmas, along with cocktail rings and brooches.

  I glanced to Stan then Davis. Stan, unsurprisingly, seemed perplexed by her attitude. However, Davis stared at the woman, star struck.

  Hmm. Also interesting.

  I shook my head. “No. Thanks. We’re good.”

  Her eyes narrowed, like she didn’t find me amusing, and fuck if that didn’t amuse me.

  “Who sent you?” Her chin lifted another notch.

  “Who sent us?” Surprised by the presumptive bluntness of the question, I slid my eyes to the side—thinking that over—and then back to her. She was close enough now I could see her eyes were really fucking pretty, a rich mahogany brown, and her skin had a golden olive undertone, and her lips were pink. “What makes you think someone sent us? Maybe we live here.”

  She glared at me like my questions were dumb. “You’re obviously private security. Someone always sends you people. You never go anywhere without being sent.”

  “You make us sound like dogs.”

  “If the collar fits. . .”

  That made me smirk. “You got a ball in your bag? Maybe we could play fetch.”

  She squinted, her mouth forming a line like she didn’t want to think I was funny, but she did. “I’d be too tempted to throw it out the five-story window,” she responded icily.

  I chuckled. “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah. Really.” Her eyebrow arched higher.

  Yeah. She was definitely trying not to smile.

  I let my eyes move over her, feeling the slight grin before I could stop it. She was raised by old money, no doubt about it. I knew these people, easy to spot. There was just something about them.

  They hated people like me.

  Well, they hated me at first—new money, bad manners, felony conviction, no shits given—but they sure did like to fuck me later.

  And that’s where my mind was headed when Davis stepped around me and held his hand out. “Kat, right?”

  She didn’t take it, instead sliding her eyes to his and issuing him a coolly superior look.

  He visibly swallowed and let his hand drop. “We’re here to look after Ms. Morris. Our employer, Quinn Sullivan, is invested in her well-being. I believe you’re a friend of hers?”

  The woman, Kat, blinked at Davis. Then she stared at him. Then her lips parted again. And then something really interesting happened. All the
rigidity, the superior frostiness left her features, and she released a small sigh. It sounded both surprised and relieved.

  Her gaze came back to me and, I swear, you could’ve knocked me over with a cotton ball. She looked completely different, like a different person.

  “I’m so sorry. I thought—” she shook her head quickly, her voice also sounding completely different, her thick brown hair falling forward again as she laughed, seemingly at herself. “You’re with Quinn’s company. You’re here for Janie.” She laughed again, like something was hilarious, her gaze—now bright with humor—returned to mine, held. “I’m so sorry.”

  She sounded sincere.

  And now I was giving her a third look. She had a nice laugh. She had a nice smile. Actually, they were more than nice.

  I held out my hand to this intriguing woman. “I’m Dan.”

  “Kat.” She slid her fingers into my grip, her eyes warming. “I’m Kat.”

  “Like the feline variety?” I asked, leaning a little closer on instinct because, no lie, she smelled like cake. My mouth watered. I fucking loved cake.

  “No. Like a Kit-Kat,” she said, still grinning, giving me the sense she was still laughing at herself and, fuck me, but that made her endearing.

  “Kit-Kat.” I grinned widely before I could catch the impulse. I would remember her name. Great laugh. Great smile. Endearing. Smells like cake. Who is this woman?

  Also, now that she wasn’t glaring daggers at me—and her cheeks were pink, and her eyes were bright and friendly, and her expression was open and soft—this was a beautiful woman.

  A beautiful woman with a great laugh who smells like cake and is named after candy? Fuck a duck, I was in love.

  An elbow against my ribs had me sending a glare to Stan. He cleared his throat, looking at where my hand still held hers, which had me looking at our joined hands, which had me realizing I was still holding Kat’s hand. But, so what? I liked her hand, and she didn’t seem to be in any hurry to take it back.