Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 68006 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68006 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
I return to the main floor, where I find Reid talking to two uniformed police officers and several EMTs getting the security guard onto a stretcher.
“Good.” Reid motions to me. “Here’s one of my security team. He can tell you more.”
“Sir,” one of the uniformed officers says to me.
“It’s Leif. Leif Ramsey. I’m the one who found the guard passed out.”
“And the other two?”
“It’s a mystery,” I say. “They weren’t here when I came down.”
“All right,” the other blue says. “Start at the beginning, Mr. Ramsey.”
I run through the events for them, starting with the pounding on Kelly’s door, all the while thinking about Brindley. I’ve got to get Reid’s key.
“Did you see anything suspicious at all?” the first officer asks.
“Only that two guards were missing, and one was out cold. Whoever did this knows how to cover their tracks.”
“We’ll get forensics in here. No one can cover their tracks that well.”
I simply nod.
This is a uniformed officer, not a detective. I hate to burst his bubble, but forensics isn’t going to find anything.
“There’s something else,” I say specifically to Reid. “I checked with the other two women who live on the fourth floor, and they’re both secure and safe and locked in. But the girl on the fifth floor, Brindley McGregor, didn’t answer her phone, and she didn’t come to the door when I pounded and yelled.”
Reid’s eyes widen. “Oh my God.”
“I know. I don’t have a key to her place.”
Reid pulls out his pocket wallet, grabs a key card. “This is the master. It’ll get you in. Take one of the officers with you.”
I nod. The cop—his name tag says Powers—heads to the stairwell with me. Both of us draw our guns.
Officer Powers is huffing and puffing by the time we walk up five floors. Aren’t police officers supposed to be in good shape?
I unlock the stairwell door, and then I lead the way to Brindley’s apartment.
“Did you check out all the other empty apartments up here?”
“I didn’t have that much time,” I say, “but I did check the doors. They’re all locked.”
“We’re going to need to check all these empty apartments.”
“I agree. I would’ve done it, but I didn’t have the time.”
Officer Powers lets out a soft scoff. Fine. I’m used to law enforcement thinking they know more than I do. In some cases, they do. Powers though? Not a chance.
We reach Brindley’s door, and I try calling her. Again, no answer.
I pound on the door again. “Brindley! It’s Leif! Open up!”
Once more, no response.
Officer Powers pounds on the door. “It’s the police, ma’am. Please open the door!”
“I think we have to go in,” I say.
“Yep.”
I slide the master key through the reader and open the door. “Brindley!”
I head straight to her bedroom.
The door is closed.
I knock. “Brindley! Open up! It’s Leif Ramsey!”
“You’re going to scare her,” Powers says.
“She didn’t hear the phone. She didn’t hear the pounding on the outside door. What do you suggest I do?”
“Open the door.”
“That’s what I’ll do next, if she doesn’t answer.”
Officer Powers pushes me out of the way. “Christ,” he murmurs. Then he opens the door.
He walks in a few steps, and—
Thud.
It reverberates out into the hallway where I’m standing.
I rush into Brindley’s room—
And I gasp.
7
KELLY
A birthday card sits on the table at breakfast. I’m eighteen today, halfway through my senior year of high school.
The envelope is pink. I’m not a huge fan of the color, but it seems to connote gentleness. I haven’t known a lot of gentleness in my life.
I recognize my mother’s handwriting on the outside of the card. It says simply Kelly.
“Mom?” I yell.
She doesn’t reply, which doesn’t necessarily mean she’s not here. Mom doesn’t always reply when she is here. A lot of times she likes to pretend I don’t exist.
It’s been that way since I grew as strong as she is. She can no longer smack me around and throw me in the closet, so we pretty much just coexist. At least I usually get enough to eat these days. I can earn my own money babysitting, and though I don’t have a lot of friends, I occasionally get invited somewhere for dinner.
Sometimes Mom is home, and sometimes she’s not.
She doesn’t tell me where she goes or where she’s been, yet I’m supposed to always relay my whereabouts to her. Which I do. Call it habit. Today I’m eighteen. A legal adult. Perhaps I no longer must do as she says.
I scoff. What a nice thought. Except I still live here, in a house she rents.
I pick up the card, look at my name.
The envelope is perfect and pink. I turn it over, slide my thumb beneath the—
“Ouch!”
I suck my thumb into my mouth.
Freaking paper cut.
I let out a sarcastic chuckle.
Nice foreshadowing. Nothing from my mother is ever good.
Eight years ago, she gave me my own deflated volleyball for my birthday after locking me in the closet. Then she demanded that I thank her for such a thoughtful gift.