Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 81843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel and exhale.
“Actually,” Brandi says, “Chloe called in and said she’d be late.”
My stomach drops. “She did?”
“Yes. She said something happened at home and she’d be in by lunch. She had me pull a few reports and email them to you. I hope that’s all right.”
Fuck. “Yes. Thanks for doing that, Brandi. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“Of course, Mr. Brewer. Goodbye.”
The call ends, and I ease up on the gas pedal.
A swell of anxiety rises in my chest. I can’t fight the feeling that something’s wrong.
Maybe something happened to her grandmother.
“She’s not sick, really. She just forgets she’s not in her thirties anymore, and her legs give out. She’s fallen a few times recently. I have to sleep with one eye open because I’m scared to death that she’s going to fall in the dark.”
A chill races down my spine as her neighbor’s voice echoes through my brain.
Waves of concern wash over me for the millionth time. Who the hell was that, anyway? And what was he saying?
I stopped myself several times from finding out where she lives and checking on her. A part of me thinks it’s overstepping my role as her boss—and that’s probably true. But a bigger part of me thinks it’s the right thing to do because I’d do it for any of my friends.
I stop at a light. Using the pause in activity to my favor, I slide my phone out of the holder and tap on Chloe’s name. It rings three times before her voicemail picks up again. This time, I leave a message.
Fuck.
“Hey, Chloe, it’s Jason,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “Call me back when you can, please. Thanks.”
Where is she? She’s never late and rarely calls off from work—and she wouldn’t have had Brandi pull those reports for her if it wasn’t necessary. That I know for a fact.
Every time she takes a personal day, she lets me know at least a week in advance. And if she doesn’t answer when I call, she calls me right back.
I glance down at my phone. No return calls over the last hour.
This is so unlike her …
I take a hard right into a parking lot. I barely stop the car before I call HR.
“Brewer Air, Keisha speaking,” she says.
“Morning, Keisha. It’s Jason. Can you get an address for Chloe Goodman for me?”
“There are laws about who and why I can release personal information, Mr. Brewer.” She laughs, not knowing I’m about to lose my patience. “I’m assuming you’re using this for some super important company project.”
“I don’t see why else I’d need it.”
“Me either.” She clicks away on her keyboard. “It’s 8901 Lang Avenue, Number 4A. Want me to text that to you?”
I activate the navigation system and pop the address into the search bar. “No. I got it. Thanks, Keisha.”
“No problem. Have a good day.”
“You, too.”
I end the call quickly.
Anticipation surges inside me, mixing with irritation and a touch of adrenaline. I’m still trying to understand why I asked for this information. What can I really do with it?
What do I want to do with it?
I haven’t found an answer to either question before the navigation displays the route to Chloe’s house … a whole seven minutes away.
An internal war brews over whether I take this information as a good to know—or if I use it. Before the arguments can be played out, I slam my car into drive and follow the prompts to get into the left turn lane.
Fuck it.
I slow my speed as I draw closer to my destination.
I’ve only been to this part of town a few times. No business happens here. There aren’t meetings or restaurants, and there are no parks for a nice afternoon jog. It’s not a place to be if you don’t have to be here.
So why is Chloe?
The buildings on both sides of the road have seen better days. Chain-link fences separate lots and grass and weeds run rampant through broken sidewalks. Litter and debris have accumulated in dusty front lawns and empty spaces between complexes.
Heads turn as I crawl through the neighborhood, searching for address numbers on the buildings. Most have no numbers at all. Some have a few. But only one building—8901—has all four.
Even if I didn’t recognize it as the infamous Pliny Building, the faded block letters on the top, minus half of the L, would be my first clue.
“You have reached your destination,” the car chirps as I stop in front of the large brick structure.
“Hey, fucker. Move it or lose it,” a man shouts from the sidewalk. He holds his arms to the sides of his dingy white tank top as if he owns the space.
I hold up a hand in a semblance of a wave and press down the street.