by Keri Lake
“Firm,” he says in a velvet voice, returning the handshake.
“Excuse me?”
“Your grip.” Twisting our clutched hands, he seems to examine them clasped together, his big palm swallowing mine. “Strong.”
Clearing my throat, I slip my hand from his and give the too-small T-shirt one more tug. I can’t have this guy roaming around my property. The neighbors are going to think I’ve taken up with the mafia.
“Look, you’re a few minutes late. I actually rented out the apartment about an hour ago to a … person who made an appointment before you did.”
“I’ll pay double what the other person paid. I’m guessing a woman.”
This guy is relentless. And even if his offer has leaped into the realm of ridiculous, he’s starting to piss me off.
“Why do you presume I’m sexist?” I rest my hands on my hips, frowning back up at him.
“I can only imagine what you’re presuming right now.” His eyes take another dip south and linger on the return trip. “Can I at least see what I’m missing out on?”
“What’s the point? It belongs to someone else.”
“Does it?”
I can’t tell if he’s talking about the apartment, or me. He should shack up with Harv and Bethany and start a university of sexual puns.
“Fine. I’ll let you check it out.” Hell, maybe when he sees it, he’ll lose interest. Surely, this guy wouldn’t be happy living in a tiny in-law suite that barely has cable. “I’ve got nothing else to accomplish today.” I usher him inside, taking in the size of him as he passes me in the doorway. This dude could crumple me into a ball and toss me out the window, if he was feeling ambitious enough.
“Straight out the back,” I say, guiding him down the corridor to the mudroom. The kitchen passes us on the left where the breezeway stands open, and I catch his quick glance toward it.
“You don’t strike me as a Star Wars fan,” he says over his shoulder, as he comes to a stop in front of the door leading out to the back yard.
“Who’s passing judgment now?” I wait for him to open the door and step out onto the deck.
The back of the property is probably the most appealing part of the house. My father wanted to create a sanctuary for my mother, so he planted trees that provided enough privacy from the neighbors and shaded the many gardens I’ve done a piss-poor job of keeping maintained in recent years.
“For your information, it’s my son’s shirt. If you hadn’t been doorbell happy this morning, I might’ve had time to grab a shirt that fits.” Realizing I offered information I didn’t care to divulge, about my son, I bite my cheek and inwardly kick myself.
“Do you always wear your son’s clothes?”
“No. But if I did, that’s none of your business.”
The in-law suite sits above the three-car, detached garage behind the house, with a narrow deck that spans the width of it, and a staircase at the far right of the structure. At the foot of the stairs, I take the lead, certain the guy is staring at my ass as we ascend toward the door of the apartment.
“I have to say, the view in the back is incredible.”
Swinging around, I frown down at him, nearly losing my balance when I see he’s waited at the bottom of the staircase and is staring out over the yard. “Oh. Yeah, my father was better at keeping it maintained.”
“Your mom didn’t keep up the yard?”
“No. That was my father’s job.”
“How sexist.”
Huffing my frustration, I damn near slam through the door to the in-law apartment, and I stand in the center of it, arms crossed, waiting for him to enter. Once inside, his eyes scan over everything. And I do mean everything, as he opens the cupboards, the closets, and ventures into the bedroom.
“Nice. I’m sorry I didn’t claim it first.”
“Well, better luck next time.”
“You did disclose that you have a massive water leak, right?”
“What?”
He points above me, toward where an enormous brown spot discolors the once stark-white ceiling. “That’s going to be a problem later. Expensive one. You also have seal failure going on in the windows. That’s why there’s condensation inside the panes. The insulation out here feels a little thin, as well. No renter is going to want to deal with a potential disaster. I’m guessing he, or she is aware and doesn’t have an issue with all these things, though.”
Shit. I haven’t spent any significant time out here, aside from a quick cleaning I did before posting the ad for a renter, and I guess I failed to notice the maintenance it needed. Doesn’t help that my husband didn’t do shit for home repairs, when he was alive.
“Thanks. I’d have taken it, in spite of all that, but I suppose that ship has passed. Nice meeting you, Star Wars.”
Star Wars. Indignation needles me in the gut, as I watch him exit the apartment, my mind rapidly contemplating my options. If I don’t rent it out, Oliver’s going to get whatever is left after bills every month for Christmas presents, which is little more than zero. I could use the two hundred Jonah and Diane gave me, but that’ll leave us eating ramen noodles, when the gas bill comes due at the end of the month.
Which means I could rent it out to someone who’ll probably swindle me down, once they see all the shit that needs repair.
Or I could let Mafia Man pay me four times the rent and skate comfortably into the New Year.
Goddamn it, Nola.
“Wait.”
He’s already halfway down the stairs, when I hustle toward the door to catch him.
“Wait.” With a contemplative huff, I scratch the back of my head. “What’s the suit all about? What do you do?”
“I work in securities.”
“Like a mall cop?”
“Like stocks and bonds.”
“Oh! Right. Those kind of securities.” Not that I’d know the first thing about that. “And the tattoos are … not gang related?”
“No.”
Whatever piss poor interview I’m conducting right now, he’s at least humoring me with decent answers.
“What does a businessman like yourself want with some old, rundown, in-law apartment with a leaky roof? It doesn’t make sense. Shouldn’t you be living it up at the Ritz-Carlton downtown?”
“I’m a man who values his privacy, above all else. My stay in the Chicago area is temporary. I’m hoping to concentrate on work without the distraction of the city.”
“And you’re not some creep who keeps bottles of Jergens to put the lotion on it’s skin.”
“Do you have something against Jergens?”
“What I have is a son. And I’ve really struggled to hold my faith in humanity over the last few years. Please don’t make me regret changing my mind and letting you take the apartment. You’re still willing to pay double?”
“Triple, if I can occupy the space in the next hour.”
Jesus Christ. Triple would let me take Christmas week off work—something I haven’t done since Oliver was a baby.
“I can’t. At this point, I’d just be taking advantage of you.”
“I guilt-tripped you into renting your apartment to me, so I guess that makes us even.”
I scratch the back of my head again, trying not to let the lure of money talk me into something stupid, but the lure of money is definitely talking me into something stupid. “Right. So … um. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Everyone calls me Voss.”
“Well, what does the DMV call you, because I need to run a quick background check before we do this.”
“Rhett Voss.”
Rhett Voss sounds like something out of a romance novel. “Are you from here originally, Voss?”
“New York. Star Wars.”
My eye twitches at that, and I roll my shoulders, tugging the hem one more time. Of course he’s from New York. Fancy city to match his fancy suit and his fancy car. And here I’m standing in jeans, with no shoes, and an eleven year-old’s Star Wars shirt
. “Can you come back in about a half hour?”
“Sure. Only if you promise to answer the door.”
“Of course.”
Instead, the guy waits in his car—a fancy black Audi parked at the curb, which I’ll have to inform him is jack-bait in this neighborhood. Not that this part of the city is all that bad, but his car doesn’t scream drug dealer, it screams stock trader, so it’s basically fair game around here.
I call Jonah, who has one of his buddies run the guy’s name and plates.
Turns out, he actually is from New York. Actually, a stock trader. And, more surprising than all of that, doesn’t have a criminal history whatsoever. In fact, his record is as polished as the goddamn paint job on that car.
“Are you sure, Jonah?” I ask, staring down at all my notes. “Not even a speeding ticket, parking ticket, nothing?”
“Squeaky clean, according to Tanner.”
Which means I have no reason not to trust this guy. Damn it. The lure is growing stronger by the minute.
“How’s Oliver?”
“Great! He and Diane went out for some takeout sushi for his last night here.”
“Awesome. He used to love sushi.” Sometimes, I wonder what Oli would turn out like if I just let him live with my brother and his wife, instead of his spending so much time by himself. I wonder if living with me is going to fuck him up for the rest of his life. Turn him into one of those kids who guns down his classmates, because no one knew how lonely he was. “Thanks for taking him, Jonah. You guys are the best.”
“Ah, this is all Diane’s doing. She’s been planning this weekend for weeks now.”
Well, that’s a relief. It’s somewhat comforting to know the things that were once just everyday life for Jonah and me take weeks to plan for someone else. “Okay, I guess I need to tell this guy he’s good to move in.”
“Don’t feel like you have to do this … letting some stranger into the home. You have choices, Nola. Diane and I are—”
“Nope. I’m not going to keep relying on someone else for everything. I want to do this. I need things to loosen up around here, and … maybe it’ll be good to have a guy around Oliver again.”
“You don’t have to recruit some Wall Street Wolf to do that. I’m happy to take him up to dad’s cabin sometime.”
“You’re busy, Jonah. And soon you’re going to have your own child.”
“Maybe so. But that doesn’t mean I won’t be here for you and Oliver.”
“I know. I’m going to let you go, okay? This guy’s been sitting in his car, waiting for an answer. I don’t want to be the one who mars his squeaky clean record with his first kill.”
After clicking the phone off, I head out to the curb, and his window rolls down as I approach. Big surprise, the car interior is black leather, and the technology looks like something straight out of a cockpit. The scent from inside wafts passed me: leather and cologne, and that new car smell beneath it all.
“Looks like you’re set to move in. Your background checks out.”
“Fantastic.”
“So … I guess I’ll let you get to it. Can I get you something to drink?” I glance down at the fancy Fiji bottle sitting in his drink holder.
“No, thank you.” Climbing out of the vehicle, he takes a moment to adjust his suit, and pops the trunk of his car. Tucked inside are two large, shiny black Tumi cases that he removes with ease.
“Looks like you don’t have much to carry, so I’ll let you get settled on your own.”
“Perfect.”
“Right.”
“Do I get a set of keys?”
“Oh!” I stuff my hand into my pocket, where I put them before calling Jonah, and hand him a set. “There’s room in the garage for your car. I don’t use it, but … my car is nowhere near as fancy as yours. Um … no parties, no … drug deals, or prostitutes in and out of here.”
Face screwed up into an amused sort of smirk, he slams the trunk shut.
“I’m serious. I got enough shit going on. I don’t need my son asking those questions.”
“You’ve nothing to worry about. As I said, I keep to myself.”
“Good. Because as much as you value your privacy, I value my peace and quiet.”
“Good. Sounds like we’re a match made in heaven. I’ll let you get to your peace and quiet, while I settle into my privacy now.”
Perhaps it’s his matter-of-fact attitude that has me feeling frustrated in all of this. From the moment I talked to the guy, his voice resonated the kind of arrogance and confidence I loathe in men. Probably wouldn’t bother me near as much, if he weren’t good looking on top of it, in a rugged, career criminal sort of way.
I trail my gaze after him as he strolls off toward the backyard, carrying his suitcases that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe is worth. A glance down at the Star Wars shirt shows a chocolate stain just above the nipple, and I groan.
7
Voss
Nola Tensley is a twenty-eight-year-old single mother, whose husband was murdered in what was deemed to be a drug-related incident. Though, aside from some meth-head they picked up nearby, they really didn’t nail down too many suspects. Nola Tensley graduated top of her class and was accepted to a number of universities, all of which she rejected—likely due to pregnancy at a young age, I guess. She’s a long time waitress at Duli’s Diner, and dabbles in ceramics as a side gig.
Nola Tensley is also fucking delectable—a potential distraction I didn’t anticipate when I first stumbled upon her ad for a renter. With brown hair and those chestnut colored eyes Carl apparently wants to add to his hobby room of horrors, she’s not at all what I expected. A little spitfire who stirred my blood the moment I saw her in that too-tight T-shirt.
I toss her file onto the worn-down coffee table in front of me. The paisley patterned couch beneath me is surprisingly intact, and doesn’t smell particularly old and moldy, like the rest of the place. The outdated décor may lack the luxuries and technology I’ve grown accustomed to, but I wouldn’t have passed it up for anything. It’s here that I’ll track down and find what I’m looking for.
And so long as Nola Tensley minds her own business, I’ll not pose any threat to her, or her son. I’ve killed for lesser infractions than going through my things, and I won’t hesitate to guard that identity with my life.
After all, I’ve spent a lifetime in both the military and working for The Gallows, keeping below the radar, concealing my true identity. As far as the world is concerned, Rhett Voss is a highly successful stock trader in New York, visiting Chicago on temporary business.
I asked Jackson to find as much information on the woman as he could possibly gather—a request he was happy to oblige in, in order to keep me from hunting him down after fucking up my last job. Turns out, though, there isn’t a whole lot on the woman, and her file came back surprisingly thin. Of course, Jackson hasn’t always been the most thorough at gathering information, which will leave me to do some of the work on my own. Mostly, I like to know what I’m dealing with when it comes to the people I encounter, even if its not all business.
Unlike half the women her age, who’ve already bled the majority of their lives into social media, Nola hasn’t logged into her Facebook account in a year, nor is she listed in the White Pages online. No speeding tickets, or overdue library fines to speak of. Not even those annoying public records sites that claim to possess all I want to know about Nola Tensley have her shit right.
She’s kept herself off the radar, too.
Progress notes from Insight Outpatient Psychiatry, the only source of information available on her, lay strewn over the table, detailing Nola’s six consecutive sessions with her psychiatrist. Nothing more than breadcrumbs of information she was willing to divulge, during her appointments, that don’t add up to much of a picture about the woman. I’m left knowing very little about her, including why she stopped seeing her psychiatrist a few months back, and why she wakes up from nightmares every night. Doesn’
t make much sense that she’d step outside of her airtight little box to allow a total stranger into her carefully guarded world, but I’m guessing her need for cash outweighs her desire to remain unnoticed.
Most times, Jackson’s findings are sufficient enough for me to piece together the missing parts, but all his research has done is leave me with more curiosity about the woman. Unfortunately, she’s not the only reason I’m here.
The chime of my cellphone draws my attention to a message notification on the screen. I open it to the same encrypted address as before.
If you wish to play, follow the link to your first clue. Doing so will trigger release of the funds into your account.
He can’t be foolish enough to think clicking on the link will provide access to my IP address, unless he believes I’m a total idiot. I click on the link as instructed, which opens to a blank page. An image begins to load, slow and tediously, as if the file is too large. It’s a picture of my mother, who must’ve been eighteen at the time, given the youth of her eyes. A cloth is draped over her shoulder, where she sits on a crushed red velvet couch that I remember from childhood, and my tiny feet are sticking out of the right side of the cloth as she breastfeeds me. It’s a photo I recognize from the thick album of baby pictures she kept in the closet. As the picture loads from the top down, more details come through in remarkable clarity. The wallpaper behind her, covered in cowboys and stagecoaches, that I used to stare at during long hours of punishment.
Frowning, I stare back at the screen, trying to tease the ways a baby picture might be a clue.
And? I type back to him.
Eyes collect the truth that the mind chooses not to see.
I click on the photograph again, realizing there’s something in it I’m just not picking up. Everything is as I remember in the photograph. The walls. The coffee table that always held magazines and the TV Guide. The couch. My mother. Me. That’s it. Zooming in on each detail fails to reveal anything out of the ordinary.