Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“You want me to come up?” he asks.
“No. I think it’s best if I talk to her alone.”
“Then let me do a sweep of her house and grounds first.”
I take off my seat belt and turn to face him. “For what? A rabid racoon? Because that’s the only danger here. You think some random mercenary is in there ready to kidnap me?”
Cole scowls. “No, but those were professionals who came after you and they have resources. It is not outside of the realm of possibility that they’re watching all of Erik’s family and friends, in the chance you approach them.”
I had not considered that, and I almost capitulate and let him come in. But then a thought occurs to me and I shake my head. “No. Not possible. If you thought there was even a remote chance of that happening, you would not have let me come.”
He sighs heavily and waves his hand. “Fine. Go do your reporter thing.”
I leave Cole in the car, knowing he’ll watch the street like a hawk but not worried about it.
The doorbell sounds hollow from the outside and soon I hear footsteps approaching. The door opens on the chain.
Marissa Hale looks like a woman who hasn’t slept since her brother died. She’s in her mid-thirties, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail that’s coming loose, wearing a sweatshirt that says TACOMA across the chest in faded letters. Her eyes are red-rimmed but alert.
“Can I help you?” she asks, and I hear the fatigue in her voice.
“I’m Tessa Ward. We talked on the phone a few days ago.”
“I told you not to come,” she says quietly.
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it mattered.”
“Who is he?” she asks, nodding toward Cole sitting in the car at the curb.
“A friend.” I hold her gaze. “He just drove me here.”
She studies me for a long moment and then surprisingly, the chain slides free.
I follow her into the living room, noting a crayon drawing half-finished on the coffee table next to a stack of library books. She doesn’t offer me anything to drink, perching on the edge of the armchair while I take the couch.
“I meant what I said on the phone,” she starts. “I don’t know specifics.”
“I know,” I say gently. “I’m not here for specifics. I’m here because you knew him probably better than anyone.”
Her face shifts, the practiced defensiveness giving way to a rawer vulnerability underneath. Her fingers lace tightly together and she stares at them. “He was my little brother,” she says, and the words come out drenched in pain.
“You were close,” I surmise.
She nods, eyes still pinned on her hands. “Very.” She glances toward the drawing on the table. “My kids adored their uncle Erik. The funeral is in two days and they don’t really understand what dead means, and I haven’t been able to explain it.”
I glance around. “Are they here?”
She shakes her head. “Out on an adventure today with their dad. He wanted to get them out for a bit.”
“Kids are resilient,” I say softly, and she nods with a watery smile.
Marissa takes a deep breath. “So, what do you want to know?”
“When’s the last time you talked to your brother before… he died?”
She looks up at the ceiling, face scrunched in recollection before her eyes come to me. “Well, we talked all the time, but one call stands out about three weeks before he died.” She picks at the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “This call was different. He was scared. I could hear it underneath everything he was saying even though he was trying to sound normal.”
“Did he tell you why?”
She shakes her head. “He wouldn’t say specifically. Just that he’d found information at work he didn’t know what to do with. That he was trying to figure out the right thing.” Her jaw tightens. “I told him to quit. Just walk away and find another job. There are a hundred companies in Seattle that would hire someone like him.” Her voice fractures slightly. “He said it wasn’t that simple.”
“Because he’d already seen too much,” I say quietly.
Her eyes come up to mine for the first time since I sat down. “That’s what I figured out later.” She swallows. “He said the people involved were the kind who didn’t leave loose ends.” A pause. “I didn’t understand what that meant at the time. I thought he was being dramatic.”
I give her a moment.
“The last time I talked to him,” she continues, “was three days before he died. He called from a number I didn’t recognize.” She exhales shakily. “He told me he loved me. Told me to hug the kids. Said he was sorry he hadn’t been around more.” Her voice drops to barely above a whisper. “He knew. I think he already knew what was coming and he was saying goodbye and I didn’t even realize it until after.”