by Anne McAneny
“Probably picked the lock, went in, and would have left undetected, but he didn’t quite pull the door shut because he saw you coming down the hall.”
They peered inside together, shoulder to shoulder. Items were strewn all about the place—books, clothes, paper plates, mugs.
“Pretty much like I left it,” Zoey said.
“I think he might have straightened up,” Jake said.
Zoey nudged him. “Maybe he was just about to go in when I came around the corner.”
“Then the handle would be unlocked, right? Because he would have already picked the lock.” Jake pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, grabbed the door handle, and tried to turn it. No go. “He got in,” Jake said. “Have a look around. See if anything’s missing or different.”
Even before Jake finished his sentence, Zoey had entered and could smell that someone had been in the living room. She picked up the faintest trace of cologne, different from Jake’s, and a hint of stale smoke, not as if someone had been smoking, but as if someone had been near smoke and then trailed it in. “Someone was just here. You smell it?”
“I wish,” Jake said. “Since the explosion, all my senses are dulled. Hearing, smell”—he raised his burnt hands—“touch.”
Zoey grimaced in both pain and pity for him. Then she scanned the remainder of her apartment. Nothing unusual in the kitchen or living room, but when she approached the bedroom, an eerie feeling engulfed her. Because of her job, she had an eye for small details in large messes. What looked like a rock in a pile of dirt to an untrained eye sometimes proved to be evidence of a primitive human’s advanced cerebral processes or design capabilities. Archaeological sites needed to remain minimally disturbed to maintain integrity, but after a dig, many details were altered. Zoey had a particularly keen eye for knowing what had been disturbed, when, and why.
She scanned her desk. Stacks of paper, catalogs, journals, and newspaper clippings covered every square inch of her desk, but the piles struck her as too neat, too square. The method to her madness had been tampered with. For what?
Suddenly, she felt the aura of Jake’s body mingle with her own. He had come up behind her and now stood too close. She couldn’t deny the part of her that wanted him there, especially when his unbandaged hand found the soft skin on her arms. His warm breath tickled the fine downy hairs on the side of her neck, just below the ear. “I’ve missed you, Zo.”
Frustration mounted within her. She spun on him and took a step back. “Were you in here while I was away, Jake? Did you go through my things?”
“What? I wasn’t in here. If I was, I would have kicked the ass of whoever just broke in.”
“Because it’s kind of hard to determine what you did and what an intruder did. Honestly, at this point, I’m not sure you’re not the intruder, that you didn’t just double back.”
Jake grimaced. “Intruder? Is that what I’ve become to you—an intruder? Talk about a fall from grace.”
“That’s what happens when one person skids away from another, leaving them all alone 250 miles away.”
Jake’s attitude whiplashed to the offensive. “Just what is it you were doing in Virginia all this time, anyway, Zoey? I did try to call a couple times, but you must have been awfully busy.”
She blinked rapidly, desperate to come up with an explanation. “Not that it’s your business, but I visited some of my mother’s friends. Found out more about my family.”
“Suddenly curious, huh?”
“Wouldn’t you be?
“Interestingly,” he said, “I got curious about your mother, too.”
Zoey took a step back, feeling threatened, something she’d never felt around Jake before. Maybe it was the way he was looming over her or the dark look of accusation on his face. Instinctively, she glanced at the apartment door, relieved to see it still open.
“Turns out your mom was one of those Golden Chemical kids, wasn’t she?”
Zoey didn’t even try to hide her shock. “How did you—“
“I’m an investigative reporter, remember? Give me some credit. So what’d mommy really leave you in that box? One of her foretellings?”
Zoey swallowed but felt as if she were being strangled. How could he possibly know?
“Did she tell you not to marry me? Tell you I’d be a bad husband—a bad father?”
“No. There was nothing in there about—”
“So it was a foretelling?” His expression grew as sharp as talons going in for the kill. “If it had nothing to do with me, why did you lie to me at the bank?”
“My mother told me not to trust anyone.”
“Even your fiancé?” His jaw tightened, his words coming through gritted teeth. “What could it possibly have said that you couldn’t tell me?” He grew fidgety then, almost nervous, using the free fingers on his left hand to pick madly at the bandage on his right, as if desperate to remove bugs that had crawled inside. “Don’t you think I have the right to know my own future? Or at least what you now believe to be the future?”
“I don’t know what I believe.”
“About what?”
“About the whole foretelling. That’s why I met with people who knew my mother.”
“Were they Golden kids, too? Did they tell you I’m cursed?”
His uncharacteristic paranoia and the frantic way he was clawing at his bandage reminded Zoey of the vagrants in the city who searched the garbage cans with a desperate resentment. She fought to keep her voice strong, forced herself to step toward him. “What makes you so sure the foretelling had anything to do with you? Because to tell you the truth, I was really hoping it didn’t.”
“You’re actually worried. Is that why you didn’t call me the whole time you were away?”
“I tried, but you were too busy blowing yourself up. Besides, you’re the one who didn’t even leave a message to apologize!”
“I’m not the one who tossed an engagement ring into the street like it was a piece of garbage!”
Zoey got within inches of his face, no longer afraid. “You could have left a message. You have no idea what I’m dealing with, and I’m the one carrying our child, a little detail you keep glossing over.” She then uttered the thought that had been plaguing her since the day she emerged from the safe deposit box room. “Tell me something, Jake. Would you ever do anything to hurt this child? Or me?”
Jake flushed with rage. His left hand viciously ripped the bandage from his right, revealing red, glistening blisters the size of quarters. He flailed the grotesque excuse for a hand as he shouted, “Of all the things you could say, why in the hell would you choose that? Why?”
“For Christ’s sake, Jake, you said you didn’t want an extension of yourself out there.”
“I said I didn’t think I’d be a good dad.”
“You said you didn’t want a part of you out in the world.” Zoey picked up an old newspaper lying on her desk and thrust it at him. “You’re a man who’s very precise with his words. Just read one of your damn pieces.” She flung the paper toward him. “I took your words to mean that you don’t want this baby out in the world—and I don’t know what kind of reality you’re living in, but in my world, there’s only one way to prevent someone from existing.”
An image of a knife, held by an ugly hand and plunging into her torso, burst into her mind. She glanced at Jake’s raw, red appendage. “Could you hurt our child, Jake? I need to know, because maybe I don’t feel like waiting for fate to play out.”
A clamor at the door jerked their eyes from each other and onto the person entering. It was Farnham. With lightning quick hands, he trained his gun on Jake before Zoey could even think about explaining. “Freeze! Police! This the guy, Zoey? He double back?”
Jake gave Farnham a glower that dared him to take a shot.
“No, Farnham,” Zoey said. “It’s okay. This is Jake, my fiancé.” Confusion clouded her brain as the “f” word exited her mouth, but this was hardly the time to share the gritty details
of their recent see-saw relationship.
Farnham held the gun steady on Jake just to emphasize that he could, then slipped it away into its holster. “Jake, huh?” Farnham took four huge strides over to Jake, working his two-inch height advantage to maximum benefit. He glared down at Jake’s baby blues, not seeming to give a damn about their intensity. Suspicion and dislike darted out of Farnham’s tired eyes, but the thrill of facing a potential perp had seemed to lighten his usual bags. “You got a last name to go with that?”
“Medeiros,” Jake said, undeterred, and not backing away a single millimeter. “And you are?”
“Farnham. Detective. Tell me, Jake Medeiros, where did you come from?”
“Originally?”
Uh oh, Jake had slipped into reporter mode, making it difficult for people to get information out of him while he wheedled all sorts of secrets from them. He could erect a defensive wall in an instant, while aiming his own weapon—interrogation—like a gun through a turret.
But Farnham’s pinched expression showed he didn’t care one bit for this wily fellow who’d slipped in under the radar while he’d been off chasing the bad guy. He was no doubt wondering the same thing as Zoey: could Jake have run from her door, taken a few random flights of stairs, and circled back as if arriving anew? After all, Zoey had just instructed Hal not to let Jake up unannounced, but here he was, in the flesh—at least what was left of it. Either Hal’s Christmas tip had just transformed into a stale fruitcake, or Jake had already been in the building.
“No, wiseass,” Farnham said. “Where did you come from just now? While I was out looking for your fiancée’s intruder? Because Zoey just told Hal not to let you in the building anymore, and yet, here you are.”
Jake whipped his head to Zoey. “Is that true? You told Hal to ban me?”
Zoey nodded. Jake shook his head, disgusted, and then turned back to Farnham. “I was in Apartment 643.”
Zoey grimaced. She’d completely forgotten about 643.
“Who’s in Apartment 643?” Farnham asked.
“Aubrey Kent.” No one could accuse Jake of not answering the questions. Even if he could be an ass about it.
“Who’s Aubrey Kent?”
“A research specialist. Hails from Colorado, I believe. In case you want to know where she comes from.”
Zoey cut the exchange short for Farnham’s sake. “Aubrey Kent is Jake’s research assistant. She got divorced recently and needed a place to live. I helped get her an apartment that was coming vacant a couple weeks ago. Jake’s been working on a big meth story for his paper and Aubrey’s an expert on all things meth, from how to buy ingredients to how to Breaking Bad the hell out of it. Sorry, Farnham, I should have remembered that.”
Farnham listened to Zoey but kept his eyes on Jake. “Prior to today, when did you last see Aubrey Kent?”
“Yesterday, around 2:00 p.m.”
“I’ll check that out. You happen to catch sight of anyone entering or exiting Zoey’s apartment just now?”
“If I did, Detective, don’t you think I’d have mentioned it?”
“Would you have?”
“Why wouldn’t I have?”
The Mexican standoff of questions made Zoey thankful to be a female. She interrupted. “Farnham, did anybody see anything?”
“No. Nothing in the stairway. I went down to the lobby to see if he got out that way. Nothing there, either. I’ve called it in.” He focused fully on Zoey. “You notice anything familiar about the guy?”
Zoey scrunched up her face, disappointed in her lack of observational skills. “No.”
“Have you looked around? Can you tell if someone’s been in here?”
Zoey took another scan of the apartment, vowing to become neater. “I think someone went through the desk in my bedroom. Maybe touched the computer? I’m not sure.”
Farnham sighed. “Can we talk? Alone?”
Jake didn’t seem to appreciate his implied dismissal. He took a good, cynical look up and down the length of the tall man, then slowly turned his head to Zoey, expectantly.
She hesitated, but ultimately turned to Farnham. “Let me walk Jake out. I’ll be right back.”
“Be careful,” Farnham said, leaving the statement open for interpretation. “And have Hal ride back up with you if you go downstairs.”
Farnham began his own inspection of the apartment as Zoey grabbed Jake by the arm and led him down the hall. The elevator opened instantly. They got on, maintaining an awkward silence the entire ride down and through the lobby. Hal looked more than a little confused when she and Jake stepped into the lobby together. “Miss Zoey,” he said, “I didn’t even leave. No coffee, nothing. I don’t know where he came from.”
“It’s okay, Hal. He came in earlier.”
“Oh, I did step out for coffee earlier.”
Jake and Zoey exited the lobby and emerged into evening air that had grown thick and damp. The sun hadn’t set yet, but it always disappeared a little earlier in the city, given the manmade horizon of skyscrapers. In this pre-dusk hour, the strange glow of the new electric lanterns just outside the building doors lent a hideous hue to Jake’s wounds. Zoey noticed and couldn’t help herself; she took his right hand in hers and stroked a small undamaged portion of his skin with a single finger.
“Jake, I’m sorry I lied, but I’d like a chance to explain everything, and to hear your explanations as well.”
“Who’s this Detective Farnham dude? You seem to know him pretty well.”
“He’s the guy who told me about my mother’s rapist. He’s been very kind. You didn’t need to be so harsh with him.”
“What’s he doing here now?”
She sighed. “A lot has gone on.”
“Related to your Virginia trip?”
Zoey suddenly felt every ounce of the exhaustion that had been building up within her. “Can we talk later? We’ve got a lot to sort out.”
Jake turned his head in multiple, random directions, seeming unsure how to vent his frustration. “Let’s do it now.” He swallowed back a lump in his throat and his voice sounded choked. “I’ve got a little time. Let’s just walk. Call that detective and tell him you’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
Zoey gave the faintest smile. She sensed there was still hope for them, but she wished Jake didn’t look so burdened. “I want to, but Farnham’s come all the way over here. I think he’s got something heavy to say.”
Jake checked his watch. “All right. I’ve got to meet a guy in an hour. After that?”
Jake was always meeting a guy—a dealer or a thug or a crooked politician—or occasionally, a hooker. It came with the job, but Zoey never liked it, especially because Jake was steadfast about keeping sources confidential. Unless they were together, she rarely knew what dirty alley or grungy biker bar he might be entering or exiting—or who might be watching him.
“You just got out of the hospital, Jake. I don’t think you should be meeting a guy.”
“I totally agree, but this could help the Appalachian dad. Least I can do for the poor bastard.”
“After your meeting, then.”
“How about eight o’clock? Meet at Carney’s near my place?”
“Sure.”
Jake looked more at ease, almost grinning. “All right. Good. We’ll split a pitcher, grab a bite, and talk like rational people.”
Zoey pressed her lips together and almost didn’t say what she was thinking, but it came out anyway. “As long as it’s a pitcher of soda. Can’t really pound the brewskies these days.”
Jake’s face fell. “Whatever. I’ll see you at eight.” He turned and walked away without kissing her good-bye.
As he strode down the street, pulling his jacket in close around him, she directed her eyes to the clouds while blinking rapidly, a trick she’d learned at Grandma Magda’s house to keep tears at bay. She sniffed hard, and with the exception of a single tear, the trick worked. Then she physically shook away the profound negativity surrounding her and headed
back in to see Farnham.
#
Neither she nor Jake had reason to notice the run-of-the-mill Buick—or its occupant—in the parking spot across the street. But its occupant had recognized Zoey. Not because he’d ever met her before, but because yup, she definitely looked more than a little like her uppity whore of a mother, especially with that hair.
Chapter 35
As Zoey re-entered the apartment, Farnham emerged from her bedroom.
“Just looking around,” he said unapologetically. “I could have some guys dust for fingerprints but I doubt they’ll find anything.”
“Maybe they could just dust,” she said, running her hand along a chair railing and holding up a grimy finger as proof.
Farnham cocked his head. “I have a feeling Jake’s fingerprints would be all over everything anyway.” His tone held mild disapproval.
Zoey appreciated his fatherly, protective tone, and she suddenly felt bad for the exhausted detective. “You know what, Farnham? If something’s going to happen, we’ll find out who it is soon enough. But you don’t have to worry. It won’t be here.”
He narrowed his sharp eyes at her. “Okay, what is it with all this laissez-faire, fatalistic talk? You said some stuff when you were in Virginia. I don’t like it.” He walked over to within a couple feet of her and put a reassuring hand on her arm. “You can tell me, you know.”
Zoey felt a rush of warmth and a small taste of what it would have been like to have a father. She smiled appreciatively because she knew one thing for certain. It wasn’t Farnham’s custom to politely ask people if they might consider telling him what’s going on. She sensed that his normal method involved a physical insistence that they tell him exactly what the heck was going on—and right now, dammit.
“Do you have an open mind, Detective?” she asked.
“No,” he said without sarcasm. “But I’m a great listener, so start talking.”
Zoey did, for the next twenty minutes, as the two of them sat across from each other in small, cleared spots they’d found on her furniture. True to his word, he listened with only a few pertinent interruptions, his expressions non-judgmental and his interest fully piqued.