by Freya Barker
“I like that.”
Les quickly points out they’re prepared to pay fair market price on Mom’s place, and if they used the same realtor, we could split the cost of her fee. Clearly my neighbors have thought this through thoroughly, and I have no problem giving Caroline a quick call to get her take on this deal.
By five o’clock on Saturday afternoon Les, Dora, Caroline, and I are sitting at the small table in our kitchen, and I use my power of attorney to sign my name to the Shipmans’ offer. Les runs out to their house to grab a bottle of Prosecco, they were saving for a special occasion, to celebrate.
My head is still spinning when I hit the pillow, and only partially from the sparkling wine. Sometimes life feels like a boulder rolling down a mountain, slow at first, but picking up speed on the way. Right now I feel my life has hit warp speed and a crash is imminent.
The next morning it hits. I’m standing in the kitchen, waiting for my Keurig to brew me a cup of coffee, and suddenly I need to get out. Away from this place that holds so many memories, some good, but those are mostly buried under the years and years of unpleasant ones.
I yank the plug on the Keurig, stuff it in the box that is waiting for the final bits and pieces from the kitchen, and empty my travel mug in the sink. I’ll pick up some coffee on the way. First I need to pack up my car.
My dismantled bed is already in the back of my PT, only the mattress, which I slept on last night, is yet to be fitted in. I quickly grab the last of my toiletries, and stuff those along with the sheets and my remaining clothes in the big duffel bag I have ready. I haul it outside and manage to cram it in the passenger seat, along with the box from the kitchen.
The mattress luckily is just a double, but still a bit of a challenge. With the help of a long packing strap and the Kelim rug I had under my bed, I manage to get the mattress outside. Driven by frustrated tears and a building urgency to get away, I finally am able to close the gate on my PT. Without even looking back, I jump behind the wheel, start the car, and peel out of the driveway.
JAKE
“Can I get you something to drink?”
I just got on DDI’s corporate jet and am leaning back to let the cold air from the little vent hit my face. I lift my head to look at the flight attendant leaning over my chair.
“Water is fine, thank you. With ice if you have it. Lots of ice.”
July in Bolivia is not my idea of a fucking good time.
Hot, humid, and hostile.
The good news is; the twelve miners stuck in the collapsed shaft were rescued late last night. The bad news is; the local mining company, that originally hired DDI on the construction of the mine, is now firing up local authorities to charge them with willful negligence. It only made the situation more tense than it already was, and it fast became clear, it was better we leave the country in a hurry.
I’m hot, I haven’t slept in days because the situation was so volatile, and I’m beyond ready to get out of this shithole. Next time they can take someone else. I’ve been in enough hot, humid, and hostile places to last me a fucking lifetime. Enough.
Once we take off, I tilt my seat back, close my eyes, and sleep most of the flight back to Colorado.
I didn’t allow myself to think much about Rosie, and I purposely didn’t call. It would’ve been a distraction I just couldn’t afford on this particular assignment, but while the plane is still taxiing down the runway back in Grand Junction, my mind is on her. I hated having to leave right when shit was hitting her on all sides, and I certainly didn’t mean to be gone for almost a week. She’d been pretty clear on our last phone call that she wanted some space. I never intended to give it to her, but I inadvertently did anyway.
Now that I’ve had a few hours of sleep, my first stop is the office. It’s nice and early, just coming up on six. I want to write up my report, and get it finalized so I can forget about it. I’m almost done when Radar walks in with a coffee in each hand. It’s almost eight thirty.
He sets one coffee down in front of me and takes the seat across from me.
“Thanks,” I mumble, taking a sip of the perfect brew. “How’d you know I was here?” I indicate the coffee.
“Every time someone disables the alarm, I get a notification on my phone. I was standing in line at the coffee shop when I got yours,” he explains, smugly sipping his cup.
“And you knew it was me, because?”
“I checked the air traffic control log this morning.”
“You mean you hacked into it,” I accuse him with a grin.
“Potato, potahto...” He shrugs. “Besides, I was waiting on your ass to get home because I found something I’m thinking you’re gonna want to see.”
He gets up and moves to his desk; a large conference table with one side shoved against the wall. There are at least five or six computers set up on the large table, and the rest of the surface is littered with paper and empty cups. On the wall, one large screen is mounted, to which he is directing my attention. On it appears a still-frame of an empty hallway in the hotel.
“What are we looking at?”
“Security tapes. I was bored this week and decided to go over some of the surveillance tapes again. It got interesting when I got to the ones from the night that chick got jumped in the pool.”
“Rosie,” I correct him. “Her name is Rosie.” Ignoring the wide grin on his face, I point at the screen. “Run it, let’s see it.”
At first the hallway is quiet, the only visible movement is the odd dust particle floating in front of the camera. Then, on the bottom right corner a hand appears, holding a can, and a jet of black paint obscures the image. Next clip is from the gym, showing the same basic thing: the hand, the can, and then black. Ditto for the pool area. I don’t see anything identifying on the hand, and whoever it is knows exactly where the cameras are and how to stay out of range.
“Run it again.”
Again I watch, this time I try to focus on what I can see behind the hand that appears, but again, I see very little.
“Okay, I give,” I concede, throwing my hands up. “What am I looking at?”
“You’ve been looking at Steele for this, right?” Radar turns in his chair, tapping a pencil to his chin. “That somehow he was trying to silence Rosie?”
“Maybe,” I admit. “And don’t forget she’d shut him down the night before, right there by the pool, when he was coming on to her. And I’m not so sure he’d have taken no for an answer had I not been there to shut that shit down.”
“Fair enough. Now with all you know about Steele, every little habit, every innocuous detail—watch the clip again and see what seems off about it.”
He runs the clip again, and I watch it, making note of the type of nozzle on the can, the fact he’s spraying from left to right for me, so right to left from his perspective. I note how he moves his hand in the direction of his fingers, not his thumb. And then I see it.
“Fucking hell,” I whisper, watching the same movement on each of the three cameras he disables.
“Right?” Radar grins, swinging around in his chair. “So simple and yet we missed it.”
“Left-handed. How did we miss that?” It was more of a rhetorical question, but Radar answers anyway.
“Because we are looking at it in mirror image. I’m usually good at details like that, but I missed it too, for the longest time,” he admits.
“You know what that means?”
“Sure do,” he says with a grin.
“Rosie...” I shove my chair back, and Radar looks at me oddly before realization washes over his face. “I’ve gotta check on Rosie.”
The moment my ass hits the seat of my truck; I dial her number. It rings twice and then goes straight to voicemail. I’m already driving when I dial Grant’s number. Again, relegated to voicemail. Where the fuck is everyone?
From the office to Rosie’s place would normally take ten, fifteen minutes, but during morning rush, it’s taking entirely too long.
When I fina
lly pull into Rosie’s driveway, I see her neighbor coming out her front door and walking straight up to my truck, a worried look on his face. I met the man briefly when we were looking for Mrs. Perkins. A night that already seems so long ago.
“She’s gone,” he says, a confused look on his face. “I just dropped the wife off at an appointment and came back home to find her front door wide-open, but she’s gone.”
“Wait here,” I tell the clearly distraught man and walk into the trailer. It’s fucking empty, or close thereto. From what I recall, there was at least twice as much furniture in here and every available surface was littered with knickknacks. There’s nothing, just an old couch, the kitchen table, and an empty travel mug in the sink. Nothing left in Rosie’s bedroom but the old little side table.
“What’s going on? Why is the trailer almost empty?” I ask the older man, who is still wringing his hands by my truck.
“The wife and I bought the place off Rosie. Last night. We were in her kitchen signing papers. She mentioned she was going to get the rest of the stuff out of there today. Said she had a place to stay.”
Sounds like she’s been busy while I was gone, and I’m surprised how disgruntled I feel at being so uninvolved.
I need to find her, and not just because it looks like she’s moving on, but also because I thought she was safe while Steele was away filming in the mountains.
She may not be safe after all, because whoever attacked her is a lefty.
And Kyle Steele is right-handed.
CHAPTER 13
ROSIE
I’m not sure how I managed to get to Grant’s place in one piece.
All I can remember is this loud rushing in my ears, like something was closing in on me fast. I drove right by the coffee shop I’d planned to stop at and somehow was able to navigate my way here without any rational awareness.
Grant’s car is in the driveway, but he’s left room on the far side for my old shitbox to fit. I don’t even bother grabbing anything but my keys and rush up the stairs to my new sanctuary. It’s a small open space, with a couch, coffee table, and single chair by a wall-mounted Ikea table that flips up in the small kitchenette. A single door opens a passage to the bedroom and separate bathroom beyond. The best part of the apartment is the small balcony off the bedroom, which overlooks the lush garden in the back. Enough to fit one chair and a small side table. Ideal for morning coffee.
But right now all I see is the couch, where I curl up in a ball, my eyes closed tight.
JAKE
I tried calling the hotel, without any luck. Grant had worked his shift but already went home, and no one had seen Rosie. I called the hospital as well, but according to them, Ms. Perkins had not been in today yet.
“Radar, do we have a landline for Grant Peabody?”
“Just a sec.” I hear the sharp click of fingers on the keyboard in the background. “Here it is.” He starts rattling off a number that I struggle to remember.
“Send me his address by text too,” I tell him before I hang up and dial the number I remember.
Apparently I got it right, because after only four rings, the familiar, but sleepy, voice of Grant rumbles in greeting.
“Who the hell is this?” Is the friendly greeting I receive, but I don’t give a rat’s ass.
“Jake. Where’s Rosie?” I barge right in, wasting no time explaining.
“Rosie? She’s at home. Not supposed to be here ‘til tonight. Why? What’s going on?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. I get back this morning, head over to see her, and the front door is wide-open, the place is all but empty, and her fucking car isn’t in the driveway. What the fuck have I missed and where the fuck is Rosie?” I realize I’m yelling, when the driver of the car stopped beside me at the light, glances over suspiciously.
“Hang on. Let me see if she’s here.” I listen to what I assume is the rustle of bedcovers.
Here is Chipata Avenue just west of Third Street, as I can tell from the text I just got from Radar. I was already heading in that general direction. I’m only about five minutes out.
“Her car’s in the driveway, she must be here. I’ll get some clothes on and head right over.”
“Head over where?”
“Apartment over my garage. She needed a place, I had it empty.”
“On my way,” is all I say before hanging up.
I pull up in front of his small bungalow, a few minutes later, just in time to see Grant step out of a side door and cross the driveway. I catch up to him right as he starts up a set of stairs on the side of the garage.
“I’m not so sure she’ll want to see you,” Grant says, blocking me as I try to pass him.
He may be massive, but there’s no way he’s gonna stop me from making sure for my fucking self Rosie is okay. Without any compunction, I draw my gun and shove it in his gut.
“Move, Peabody. Now!”
Far from intimidated, the man raises a manicured eyebrow and steps aside, gesturing up the stairs with dramatic flair.
“Didn’t know you felt that strongly,” he mutters as I rush by, tucking the gun—safety still on—back in its holster.
Yeah, he’s not impressed at all. Grant, for all his stereotypical effeminate posturing, is more man than many I’ve encountered.
I barge through the door at the top of the stairs and am halted in my tracks when I see Rosie, unharmed from what I can tell, curled up in a ball on the ratty couch. Apparently fast asleep. Or at least she was, because she’s pushing herself in a sitting position, rapidly blinking her eyes now. Grant shoves me from behind so I almost stumble into the room, and now it’s his turn to rush ahead of me, sitting down on the couch beside a very rough looking Rosie.
“What happened?” I ask, sitting down on the coffee table, facing her. “What’s wrong?”
“Best answer him, Rosebud,” Grant mumbles, putting his arm around her. “He pulled a gun on me just so he could get to you. The man is se-ri-ous.”
“You pulled a gun on him?” she asks me incredulously. “On Grant?”
“It worked. He got out of my way.” I shrug before I explain. “You left your front door open at home. I thought something happened to you.”
“I was in a hurry,” she justifies guiltily. “I must’ve forgotten.”
“It’s okay, sugar,” Grant interrupts, tugging her close. “You’ve got a lot on your mind.”
“Do you mind giving us a minute?” I direct at him, meeting his eyes and holding them. An entire sharing of the minds takes place with that look alone, and by the time he leans over to kiss her on the head before getting up to leave—we’ve come to an understanding—without ever exchanging a single word.
“I’ll be cooking breakfast. Come find me when you’re ready,” he says from the doorway, more to Rosie than to me, but I’m the one who says, “Thanks.” Rosie still seems a little shell-shocked.
Relieved she seems unharmed, at least physically, and glad not to have her kick me out right away, I take the spot Grant just vacated on the couch. Much like he did, I wrap my arm around her shoulders and tuck her against me, feeling relieved when she seems to settle in my hold, with her cheek resting on my shoulder and my chin touching the top of her head.
We sit like that for a while. Her scent, the feel of her body, and the steady puff of her breath against my neck go a long way to settling my heart rate back to an acceptable level.
“Want to fill me in?” I try gently, but the sharp shake of her head is instantaneous. Clearly not ready to share. She is curious, though.
“Where were you?” she asks without moving, but still I can feel a little tension creeping in her body. “Grant mentioned you were out of town. I’m surprised you’re here at all.”
“I was in Bolivia,” I tell her honestly. DDI’s involvement in that mine disaster is already public information, so there’s no reason for me to hold that back. I give her a brief synopsis of the week.
“That’s horrible,” she says, shocked.
“It could’ve been much worse,” I quickly point out, before I move to the next point I want to make. “PASS is spread pretty thin with the production back at McInnis. It pulls almost all available bodies away from Grand Junction and limits options when an emergency like this one comes in.” I cup her jaw with a hand and tilt her face so I can look her in the eye. “When I told you I’d talk to you later, I planned to show up at your place that night with dinner. I know you were trying to blow me off, and I wasn’t gonna let you.” She lowers her eyes, trying to avoid the scrutiny in mine. I patiently wait until she lifts them again. “When this job came in, I called Grant right away to make sure he’d keep an eye on you while I was gone. So you shouldn’t be surprised I’m here.”
I know I should probably tell her about Steele. However, that’s not as important at this moment as finding out why she was rolled up in a protective ball when we walked in, and still looks like she’s about to come apart at the seams now.
“Your turn,” I tell her softly, holding her eyes with mine. “What all happened in your life?” A hard snort escapes her and immediately her eyes brim with tears. I catch her chin with my thumb and gently shake her. “Take a deep breath, concentrate on facts, and tell me from the start.”
She does. She clearly steels herself, audibly breathes in through her nose, and proceeds to tell me; a little shaky at first, but by the time she gets to her visit to the paint store, her voice is steady. I’m pretty stunned at the massive amount of change that has taken place in what felt like a long fucking time for me, but was—in fact—not quite a week.
“It still doesn’t explain why I find you here in a fetal position on the couch,” I push, and am rewarded with a flash of anger darkening those bright green eyes. She tries to shove me away, unsuccessfully.
“I was tired.”
“Perhaps, but you were rolled up tighter than a coiled wire.” She gives me another shove and this time I let her go. Luckily she doesn’t go far, just curls up, pulling her knees up to her chest, on the other side of the couch. Needing that distance again.