While the street fronting The Post was newly paved, crisp, the asphalt that lined the alley was brittle, crumbling beneath their feet like the broken dreams of the backstreet residents. “Al?” Maggie called as they walked. “Al?”
A few of the people living on the street, their faces creased by sun, dirt and the scythe of time, turned toward her like sunflowers following the sun. Satisfied Maggie and Constantine were neither threat nor opportunity, they turned away.
Maggie and Constantine walked the entire length of the alley. No Al.
They circled back to the front of the building and mounted gravestone-smooth stairs to the entrance.
Maggie hesitated at the door. “Maybe you should stay out here.”
“You’re worried I’m going to blow your cover?”
“I wouldn’t want this fabulous disguise to be for nothing.”
“Fine. I’ll wait out here. Maybe make a new friend. That guy who chiseled his teeth into points looks friendly.”
Maggie opened the door and walked toward the reception desk. Lester the security guard had been replaced by a male receptionist with a bad perm and a small, pinched face. He looked up from the book he’d half-hidden under the desk. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Yes, I was here the other day, and when I left there was an odd man outside.”
The man pursed tiny lips. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“He sang into his headphone plug?” Maggie prompted. “Doll heads around his neck? He said his name was Al.”
The man nodded primly. “Ah, Al. We have ‘No Loitering’ signs all around the exterior of the building, but do you think it does any good?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “No, it does not. They’re always there, with their hands out and their ‘Anything helps’ signs. I don’t know why they just don’t go somewhere else.”
“Maybe because they have nowhere else to go?” Maggie suggested.
The man waved his arms. He couldn’t be bothered with little things like other people’s misery. “What do you want with Al? Did he pester you? I swear, the guys on the security team are so—”
“No, no, he didn’t bother me,” Maggie said. “I just wanted to talk to him.”
Suspicion crawled across his face. “Why?”
“I wanted to ask him a few questions about the other homeless people around here.”
A light bulb in the recesses of the man’s brain flickered to life. He gave the secret handshake of nods. “Oh, right,” he said confidentially. “You’re doing a story like Miss Henderson’s. You’re the new girl, right? I heard they just hired someone.”
Maggie touched her sunglasses and gave a dazzling smile. “That’s me.”
“Why didn’t you say so? We could have fast-forwarded through all that other stuff. I’m Sam, by the way.”
Maggie thrust her hand over the desk. “Claire.” She’d always wanted to be a Claire.
They shook. “Well.” Sam sighed. “I don’t know exactly what Miss Henderson was writing, but I know it was big. She always gave me a wink when she came in from interviewing…them.” He jerked his head toward the tide of homeless people that buffeted against the building and frowned. “Like she’d gotten something good. It’d be nice if all that hard work wasn’t for nothing. She was a nice lady.”
“She was,” Maggie agreed.
“I’m sure they’ll get you all looped in about Miss Henderson.” He gestured toward the elevator, the “upstairs” where the news was created and curated. “Sorry I can’t help you with Al. He hasn’t been around the past day or so, which is sort of strange. He’s not usually the wandering-away type.” He gave her a meaningful look. “Unfortunately.”
“If you see him, would you mind giving me a call?” Maggie fished out a Post-it note from her purse, scribbled down her fake name and phone number and affixed it to the counter. “I, um, don’t have my business cards yet.”
Sam gave her a “tell me about it” look, then stuck the Post-it to his computer monitor. “No prob. Happy to help.”
Maggie strode through the double glass doors.
“Well?” Constantine asked.
“Well, you can count Al among the missing homeless. And I now have double confirmation of the article Elsa and Carson were working on.”
She brought him up to speed as they walked to the car.
“So we have Mia connected to Rxcellance and Elsa and Carson connected to each other,” Constantine said, counting on his fingers. “But we don’t know if Mia knew Elsa or Carson. Or if Elsa and Carson had any connection to Rx.”
“Not yet. But we are connecting some dots.” Maggie frowned. “Which is good. As long as no new dots show up.”
Chapter 36
Turned out scurvy had some very serious side effects, namely serious overtime at work.
While Constantine was fake-recuperating from his faux illness, servers had crashed and mayhem was made. A phone call resulted in a deluge of pleas, a smattering of rants, promises of doughnuts and a few vague threats.
The stages of IT grief.
“Crap,” he said, tossing his phone onto the denim couch.
“What?” Maggie asked. “Why does your face look like that?”
“Because I have to go into work.”
Maggie felt her throat grow tight. “Tonight?”
Constantine nodded. He stripped off his shirt and walked into his bedroom. He reemerged pulling on a red and gold jersey that read Gryffindor on the front and Potter on the back. “Sorry, Mags. Duty calls. Or in this case, doody. The whole network has gone to shit, and I guess I’m up for shoveling after having the day off. If you consider a sick day a day off.”
“You do realize you weren’t actually sick, right?”
Constantine scoffed. “Yeah, but that’s not the point. They want me there ‘right friggin’ now’ in the very eloquent words of my boss.” He looked at her. “You going to be okay?”
Maggie affixed her best fake smile. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He shrugged. “No reason, other than, you know, your friend being murdered and being wanted by the police and stuff.”
Maggie could feel Constantine looking at her closely. She uncrossed her arms, then crossed them again. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “What?”
“I love…” He hesitated. “I love having you here.”
“Yeah?”
He put his hand on her back. His skin was warm through her thin cotton tank top. “Yeah. You’re my favorite person in the whole wide world outside of Jessica Alba, for all the obvious reasons. And I’m glad I’m here to protect you with my sharp wit and crucial survival skills, like when to use a semicolon.”
He drew her into a hug. Maggie closed her eyes. Constantine smelled like clean sheets, cheap soap and corn chips. She could feel his scratchy beard on her forehead and imagined his thick lashes closed around his dark brown eyes. His straight chin. His muscled arms pulling his shirt over his bare chest.
Maggie squirmed out of the hug and gave herself a mental slap across the face. What was the matter with her?
“I love being here, too. And not just because of the ready access to Ding Dongs. Now, go on. Go save the world from computer problems. I’ll be fine.”
He squinted like he was trying to read her mind. “You’re sure?”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “I’m a big girl, Gus. I can take care of myself.”
“I shouldn’t be too long. Meanwhile…” His arms swept the room. “Make yourself at home. Mi rat hole es su rat hole.”
“I appreciate that.”
Maggie helped him gather his things, then pushed him out the door. She locked the deadbolt, then leaned against the chipped beige paint.
Time for a distraction.
She busied herself with making the apartment more habitable, or at least less likely to be condemn
ed by the health department. She washed dishes. She wiped counters. She recycled, carpet-swept, stacked piles and even dusted with an old t-shirt she found balled up under the sink.
She surveyed her handiwork. “Worthless,” she said to the empty room.
Sure, the apartment looked better, but what had she really accomplished? Was she any closer to finding out who had owned her phone? How Elsa, Carson and Mia were connected? What role Rx played? Who had murdered the first new friend she’d had in ten years?
Maggie sank onto the couch, an unspoken no to her questions resounding in her ears. She closed her eyes. Thoughts thrummed through her brain, then through her blood.
Do something. Do something. Do something.
A familiar beat. One that compelled her to move.
She rose. Paced. Fished her phone out of her pocket. Caressed its blank face.
She could call Roselyn, ask her if Zartar had told her anything, find out if she knew about Rx’s corporate shenanigans. But Maggie hadn’t heard from Roselyn since she’d been fired (and been accused of embezzlement…and become a person of interest in Zartar’s murder…and…and…and). Roselyn was probably hiding under her bed.
She hadn’t talked to Ethan since she’d been fired from Rx. Since he’d promised he’d work on her behalf to restore her good standing. Since she’d been branded a crook and a possible murderess. She wondered what he thought of her. She wondered if he thought of her.
On impulse, she powered up the phone and dialed his number. Voicemail. Fine. Probably meant to be. The providence of phones.
Yet the urge to talk with Ethan didn’t dissipate. It intensified. She suddenly felt compelled to set the record straight, to—if she was completely honest with herself—make sure he still liked her. Despite the turmoil and the danger and the heartache of the past few days, she wanted, no needed, the approbation of the man she liked a little too much a little too soon.
She decided she had to see Ethan, to talk with him in person. He could provide inside information, she reasoned, tell her what was going on at Rx, help her fill in the blanks of her life which was starting to feel like a crazy Mad Lib. Noun: death. Verb: run for your life.
Maggie grabbed her keys off Constantine’s coffee table and headed for the door. The truth was out there. With Ethan’s help, she was going to go find it.
Chapter 37
Maggie knew the Studebaker wasn’t exactly low profile. If she was being watched, the vintage car was sure to give her away. But the freedom it afforded was too appealing, and she missed feeling in control, even if it was only which gear to select.
Still, she knew she had to be careful. Camouflaged by night rather than a hat and sunglasses, she parked behind a grove of trees down the street from Ethan’s and approached his house on foot.
From the drive, she could see that the house was dark save for a smattering of twinkle lights that adorned an ornamental potted plant by the door. She approached the door and knocked softly. No response. Maggie closed her eyes and listened. She could hear the soft sighs of distant traffic but nothing else. She reached into her pocket and produced her phone. She dialed Ethan’s home number, which went unanswered. Then his cell number. No answer. No ring from inside the house. He wasn’t home. She’d have to wait.
Maggie plunked down in front of the door. She shoved her phone back into her pocket and put her hands in her lap. Stared into the night. It seemed to stare right back.
She wriggled against the door as if trying to disappear into the wood. She felt exposed. Vulnerable. In danger. Waiting in the open for Ethan was starting to feel like a bad idea.
Maybe she should wait in his house for him. He wouldn’t mind. In fact, he’d probably insist on it.
Maggie tried the door handle. Locked. She reached under the welcome mat, palpating the pavers in search of a key. Nothing.
She considered a terracotta planter stuffed with a pink-lipped hibiscus. She tipped it, felt beneath, then restored it to its upright position and moved her hand inside the earth-clotted rim. Maggie’s fingertips brushed against something hard and small. She grasped the object and exhumed it. A key.
Maggie wiped the key on her shorts, then inserted it into the front door’s lock. She turned the key. The door swung open.
Maggie winced, half-expecting the bleat of an alarm to attack her ears and batter the night’s still air. But there was nothing except the sound of blood rushing through her ears. Maggie stepped inside and carefully closed the door. “Ethan?” she whispered. “Ethan, are you here?”
She wasn’t sure why she called his name. Even less sure why she whispered.
She walked through the foyer, moving past the chair where she’d waited for Ethan to get out of the shower. Past the kitchen where they’d drunk wine. Past the couch she’d leaned on when Ethan kissed her.
She found herself in Ethan’s home office and surveyed her surroundings. An oversized desk with massive morgue-like drawers held court. She plunked into the chair that sat imperiously before it and waited.
Minutes crept by. She raised and lowered the chair. She spun around like when she was a kid.
She stopped mid-spin. Something had caught her eye.
A silver-hued picture frame, facedown on the desk.
Curious, Maggie reached for the frame. Her fingers hovered over its black velvet back as questions fired inside her brain. Why had it been turned over? What was on the other side? Had it toppled accidentally or been purposely placed? Would it be wrong to turn it over, to take a tiny peek?
The answer to this last one was clear. It was wrong to let herself into Ethan’s house, even more wrong to snoop through his things. But Maggie didn’t care. She had to know.
Maggie turned the frame over. Ethan, dressed in a blue suit and red-striped power tie, grinned back, his handsome face animated in a candid, mid-laugh shot. He was in the center of a three-person group hug, one arm slung casually over the shoulder of a man, the other around the sequined waist of a woman.
Maggie squinted. The man beside Ethan was Miles, who looked more human and less roidy than usual.
The woman was Mia Rennick.
Maggie’s mouth went dry. Ethan knew Mia. Was friends with her. Was friends with Miles, for God’s sake.
Her mind rewound to Ethan’s denial that he knew Mia. To his suggestion that he despised Miles. To the GN file in his bag. To his secret meeting with Zartar.
It was all so clear. She’d been so stupid. Ethan had been lying almost since the moment she’d met him.
Maggie’s intestines cramped, sending a wave of pressure through her abdomen. She felt sick. Sick with grief over the loss of her friend. Sick with betrayal. Sick with fear that she’d very possibly wandered into the lion’s den.
She now knew that Ethan couldn’t be trusted. She wondered what other secrets he’d been keeping.
She reached for the desk drawer. Then stopped herself. She should have brought gloves. Isn’t what they did in the countless movies she watched? She looked despairingly at her traitorous fingerprints. She considered dish gloves from the kitchen. Too cumbersome. Too slippery. Too ridiculous. She decided to leave her hands naked. The chances of anyone fingerprinting Ethan’s home was remote, and it wasn’t like hers were on file. She’d have to just go for it.
Maggie took a breath and eased open the top right drawer. It was so big she half-expected to see a toe tag instead of the usual cache of pens, paperclips and stamps in the enormous compartment. She rifled through the assortment of office odds and ends. She found nothing.
She reached her hand farther into the drawer’s gaping maw, clutched the flotsam within and pulled. She came up with a few sheets of scrap paper and some address labels.
Maggie returned the items to the drawer and closed it. She eased open the remaining desk drawers and gingerly picked her way through garbage masquerading as mail. Nothing interesting.
&
nbsp; She surveyed the room, then turned her attention to the computer, the modern-day filing cabinet.
She wiggled the computer mouse that crouched atop an Rxcellance mouse pad and awakened the computer. She scanned the computer’s desktop. Where to begin? She double-clicked the Outlook icon.
Ethan’s email opened to reveal an electronic cornfield, rows and rows of folders in which nearly anything could hide. Maggie clicked the folder labeled Rx. It opened, revealing a dozen more folders inside. One stood out immediately.
MAGGIE
The words seemed to leap at her from the screen. She pointed, clicked. An hourglass appeared. She felt like Dorothy in the Wicked Witch’s lair. Cue the flying monkeys.
Finally, the folder opened. At the top of the email history, illuminated in the blue-white light of the monitor, was an email containing the digital Trojan horse that had infected her work computer.
His betrayal had gone beyond the pilfered GN file, his denial he knew Mia Rennick, his covert friendship with Miles. He set her up to look like the company mole. He had stood by, his face drawn by false confusion and manufactured concern, while James Montgomery crucified her.
The depth of his deceit ripped through Maggie like a bullet.
She buried her head in her hands. Why did he do it? Why had he trampled the relationship that seemed to be growing between them?
The answer forced its way past Maggie’s denial, glimmering in the half-light of Ethan’s study.
There was nothing between them. He didn’t care for her. He didn’t want her. He was just using her, and she had been so hungry for the attention of this handsome, successful, charming man, she ignored every red flag and turned a blind eye to every warning sign.
Was she that desperate to shrug off the mantle of nerdy bookishness that had relegated her to science fair maven instead of homecoming queen? Was she that determined to become desirable girlfriend rather than smart and funny gal pal? Or was she simply blinded by the possibility of love—or, at the very least, infatuation?
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