Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 117574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 588(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 588(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
“If you met the right woman, I bet you’d be happy to make time for her,” Charlotte says. She shoots me a flirtatious wink. “Either way, I don’t think you’re going to have any trouble finding Miss Right, once you’re out of school. You’re a catch now, even as a student, but once you’re a veterinarian, you’ll be irresistible catnip to women.”
I roll my eyes. “Says the woman who’s already made it clear I’m not even close to her flavor of catnip.”
“Yeah, but I’m a weirdo with a defective picker. I’ve always had horrible taste in men. I’m a train wreck, Auggie. Ask Tessa, she’ll tell you.”
Who is this humble, self-deprecating woman? Whoever she is, she’s downright pleasant. A stark one-eighty from the woman who accused me of spilling that coffee on purpose and then feigned a knee injury in order to sabotage my interview.
After beaming a lovely smile at me, Charlotte moves on to a new box. As she works, I watch her for a moment, trying to make sense of this newfound chemistry I’m feeling between us. I’m not completely sure if I trust this version of Charlotte; but even so, I’m nonetheless quite certain I’d fuck her, if given the chance. I can fully accept I’m not Charlotte’s usual type. But she did just now say dating apps are trash for her, like they are for me, and that she’s not planning to stay in Seattle, long-term. For fuck’s sake, we live right next-door to each other. Mere feet away. And I don’t think I’m imagining our physical chemistry, no matter what she says about me not having a chance with her. So maybe, all things considered, Charlotte would be down for a little no-strings fling with me while she’s temporarily living mere feet away? Is that really such a crazy thought?
Charlotte abruptly looks up from the box, making me flinch.
She smiles like she’s read my damned mind. “What?”
“What?” I echo.
“You were staring at me.”
I open and close my mouth, and finally settle on, “You were looking down.”
“A fact you wouldn’t know unless you were staring at me.”
“Oh.”
She laughs. “Why were you staring at me, Augustus? Hmm?”
Okay, she’s definitely flirting with me. “I was just thinking that I appreciate you coming here to help me out. Also, I’m relieved we’re getting along better. I hate conflict.”
“So do I. This is much better.” With a little wink, she returns to her box, so I do the same, even though I’m feeling all kinds of confused and flustered.
Thankfully, about thirty minutes later, we still haven’t found a single thing to suggest the prior owner of Charlotte’s condo, the pervert known as Lloyd Graham, recorded anything through his dastardly hole in the wall. There are still a few more boxes and stacks to go through, but we’re in the home stretch now, and things are looking good.
I open a new box and begin digging through it. Forks. A tattered book. A pair of scissors. A plastic chicken. A bunch of socks. Ziploc bags. A flip phone. The old-school kind that doesn’t have a camera, thank God.
“This is promising,” I say, holding up the antiquated phone. “If this was Lloyd’s when he died, it’s a good bet he never made the leap to a smartphone.”
Charlotte pulls a face. “Unless that’s the old phone he tossed into a drawer after finally buying a smartphone.”
I tilt my head, weighing that idea. “If we don’t find a smartphone after going through everything, then I think we can safely conclude this was his final phone. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“And if that’s the case, then a guy with a flip phone probably didn’t have an iPad or other digital recording devices, either.”
“Agreed. Also, he’s probably not a guy who uploads digital files to porn sites, either.”
“Agreed.”
We exchange a grin and return to our respective boxes for several minutes.
“Oh, shit, Auggie.” When I look, Charlotte is holding up a clunky, metal rectangle—an old video camera that’s about the size of a loaf of bread. The kind that records videos on a physical cassette.
I shrug. “At least, it’s not digital.”
Charlotte turns the camera onto its side. “There’s a cassette inside it.” She pushes a couple buttons, but nothing happens. “It won’t open.”
“It probably needs to be charged or plugged in to open. Is there a cord in the box?” As Charlotte pokes around to look, I say, “There are services that copy videos from cassette to CD and also turn them into digital files. But what are the odds our pervy Boomer got his shit together enough to make digital copies of his videos, when his place was pure chaos and the only phone we’ve found was a flip phone?”
Charlotte nods. “The circumstantial evidence is definitely in our favor, I’d say.”
“Assuming all this stuff represents the sum total of Lloyd Graham’s possessions. Maybe he had a storage unit packed with tons more stuff. Or maybe someone from the auction place looted his place before it was put up for sale.”