Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26566 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26566 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
I glance down at her shoes thinking they aren’t practical. A storm is coming and there is already a thin layer of ice on the roads.
“What seems to be the problem?” I ask, cutting straight to the point. It’s fucking cold out and I got a pile of paperwork on my desk that I need to get to. Plus, it might be a long night if the storm rolls in early and people don’t keep their asses off the roads.
“Someone keeps breaking in.” She motions toward the back. I nod, heading for the back door. She follows me as I walk to where she pointed.
“Wait here. They could be inside now,” I tell her. She stops following me, an O shape forming on her lips.
“I don’t think he really did anything besides break the lock.”
“You went inside?” She raises her chin at me. I just shake my head and push in the backdoor. I keep my hand on my gun as I move through the house. Most of it is in disarray. Holes in walls and furniture looking like it’s seen better days, but I notice the kitchen is spotless. Cleaner than it should be for having been foreclosed on.
I make my way down the hall, pushing open doors as I go. The rooms all look the same. When I get to the last door I push it open and freeze for a moment.
The room is spotless, and it’s clear it’s a girl’s room. The walls are painted a soft purple, the bed made with flower-covered blankets. I open drawers and see clothes all put away, folded and in their place. There isn’t a speck of dust anywhere. Someone has been living in here. That much is clear. I clench my fist when I think about it being a young girl who is all alone in this home with no running water or heat.
The note from earlier flutters through my mind, about stealing the bread and peanut butter. I stride out of the room and move to the kitchen. I open the fridge. The light doesn’t come on—the power is clearly out—but I can still see the loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter sitting inside. I curse and slam the fridge door closed.
“We’re going to board the place up today. No one will be able to get inside.” I look over to see Erica standing in the doorway.
My heart does a funny jump in my chest. Whoever this is will be locked out of the house with nowhere to go, but I can’t tell Erica or the bank they can’t lock up their own property. That means I need to find out who is staying here, and fast. If it is some young girl, she could get trapped outside in the storm tonight. Freeze to fucking death.
“Who did you foreclose on?” I ask Erica, wanting as much information as I can get.
“I have the file in my car. Maybe we could go to lunch and I could—” She reaches out to touch my chest. I take a step back.
She licks her lips and takes another step toward me before falling to her knees in front of me. I stand shocked for a moment, surprised the uptight Erica would ever get on her knees. Especially on a dirty floor. I grab her by both her arms and pull her to her feet. She stumbles a second in her ridiculous heels. I hold back the string of curses I want to let loose.
“I really need to get back to my desk,” I say, cutting her off. “I just need the name and I can look into who’s breaking in.”
She purses her lips and I have a feeling she doesn’t care about who is breaking in. In fact, I think she only called in the first place to get me out here. Why else would the owner of the bank’s daughter be out here unless she wanted to be. Whoever is breaking in isn’t doing any damage. I have a feeling the holes have been there since before the house was foreclosed on.
“Name, Erica,” I push. She turns on her heels and stomps down the driveway to her car, pulling open her door and reaching in to grab a folder. She turns and starts to open it, but I grab it from her hand. She starts to say something, but I give her a smile and she stops. Her cheeks turn pink. She combs her fingers through her straight long brown hair.
I open the file, ignoring her. Mark Young, the file reads as I scan it. For years he’s been making payments on time and in full until they just stopped one month ago out of the blue. I close the folder and hand it back to her.
“Thanks.” I jog toward my cruiser, wanting to get back to my office and do a check. I hear an, “I’ll call you,” from behind me. I ignore her. The name Mark Young bounces around in my head. I feel like I’ve heard it before, but I can’t put my finger on it. It drives me crazy all the way back to the station.