Fall Into You (Morally Gray, #2)(68)

It’s not always like this. I’ve moved women from wealthy neighborhoods too. Money solves some problems but amplifies others.

A black Sprinter van with fake plates idles across the street from the four-story apartment building I’m headed to. Axel is behind the wheel. He spots me and gives me a thumbs-up.

Then I’m standing in front of apartment 2B, lightly knocking.

The woman who opens the door is slightly built, with frizzy brown hair and a chalky complexion. Her sweater is threadbare and her shoes are old too, but the purple bruise on her cheekbone is fresh. So is the cigarette burn on the back of her hand.

The little girl with the big brown eyes hiding behind her and clinging to her leg has bruises around her throat in the shape of fingers.

“Hello, Theresa. Are you ready?”

She nods, opening the door wider to let me in.

When I step inside, I smell cigarette smoke and stale beer. The living room is small but tidy. A single light burns in the hallway that leads past the kitchen. Down that hallway behind a closed door, a television blares.

Good. Ambient noise masks all kinds of nastiness.

Unless, of course, he starts screaming. Which they sometimes do. Then I’ll have to get creative. A crushing blow to the windpipe usually does the trick.

I close the door behind me and turn to Theresa, who’s chewing her thumbnail and hyperventilating. I keep my voice low and soothing because I know her nerves are shot.

“I’ll be out in less than five minutes. Then I’ll take you across the street to my associate who’s waiting. He has all your paperwork. IDs, passports, plane tickets. He’ll take you to the airport and get you on the flight. When you arrive in Vancouver, you’ll be met by another of my associates who’ll assist you from there.”

“How will I know how to find him?”

“It’s a she. Her name’s Kiyoko. And she’ll find you. Just stay inside the terminal. She’ll give you money and the keys to a car and your new apartment. You have my number if you need it.”

Theresa nods. She licks her lips, glances down the hallway, then looks back at me. Her eyes fierce, she whispers vehemently, “God bless you.”

Too late. The devil already did.

“Remember, you can never contact anyone you know again. Your life here is over. Theresa Davis and her daughter no longer exist.”

She nods, but I’m already turning away. I walk silently down the hallway, stop at the closed door, and remove my gloves from my briefcase.

Then I open the door and walk inside.

A sweating man in boxers is propped up on pillows in bed. He’s balding, shirtless, and overweight, eating potato chips from a small pile on his chest and smoking a cigarette. Empty beer cans litter the nightstand and floor next to him.

Not all abusers are such slobs. Like Dylan, most of them appear respectable. It’s one reason they get away with so much.

Good people don’t believe that evil can look pretty.

The man on the bed jerks upright and tries to hide his fear behind a snarl. “Who the fuck are you?”

I let him sit with that fear for a moment, just a small taste of the terror Theresa and her daughter have lived with for years. “A friend of your wife’s.”

I smile and close the door behind me.





Shay





The note is written in Cole’s handwriting. The words make sense, but the underlying message is confusing.



Baby,

If you wake up and I’m gone, don’t worry. I had to take care of some work. I’ll be back in a few hours.

I adore you,

Cole



Standing at the side of the bed wearing a white dress shirt of his that I found in his closet, I read the note over again. Uneasiness is a hungry sewer rat gnawing holes through my stomach.

Everything about this is strange. Him leaving me here alone, the “work” he had to take care of, that sign off.

Especially the sign off. He’s expert at turning the closing of a letter into mind fuckery.

So he adores me but doesn’t want to commit to me. He adores me but doesn’t answer my questions. He adores me but keeps me at arm’s length distance while dropping masterpieces of mystery such as, “Being with me isn’t safe.”

I look around the room, at all the expensive furnishings and the artwork and the elegant décor, and say into the silence, “This is bullshit.”

I want to ransack his closet, but I don’t. I want to rifle through his drawers, but I don’t. I want, badly, to find some evidence of whatever it is he’s hiding from me, but I decide to respect his privacy instead.

Barefoot, I head downstairs to the kitchen. The overhead lights blink on automatically, which is convenient but also weird. It makes me wonder if the house is operated by artificial intelligence, then I get creeped out that maybe a sentient computer is spying on me from behind the walls.

The contents of the massive stainless steel fridge are bizarre. Two dozen hard boiled eggs in a bowl, seven identical prepped containers of sliced steak and mashed sweet potatoes, and four glass jars of beige liquid that look like protein shakes are arranged separately in symmetrical rows on each shelf. The cheese and vegetable drawers are empty, as are both doors.

There are no condiments, no snacks, no desserts in the freezer.

The only thing in ample supply is cold air.