Chapter 4 #2
The house is quieter now without his breakdown. In my good ear, I can hear his breath catching on little hitches as he inhales and exhales. He’s not sobbing anymore, but he’s still sniffling, fresh tear tracks running down his face.
The poor bastard is a mess, and all I want—with every fiber of my being—is to wrap him up and hold him until this whole thing passes. Which definitely tells me there’s something wrong with me.
I guide him to a kitchen chair, take a quick assessment of him, then turn to search for something to clean him up with.
Glancing around, I see a stack of towels on the kitchen counter that seem maybe washed, and I walk over, snagging one from the pile.
There are dirty dishes in the sink and boxes on the counter, but otherwise, the place is mostly tidy, which seems very unlike him.
His entire personality so far has been total chaos.
Then, just as I reach for the faucet handle, I spy a comically large martini glass with two olives on a kebab skewer sitting in what looks like a puddle of vodka and orange juice. I fight back a laugh. That’s more like it.
More like him, anyway.
Pushing the glass aside, I slip my missing hearing aid back in my ear, then wet the towel until it’s soaking.
Squeezing it out, I turn around and make my way back to Leaf, who’s still sniffling.
It’s a bit too soft for me to hear it, even with both hearing aids now on, but I can see it in the way his nose keeps wrinkling.
He blinks up at me, so I kneel down, squatting between his legs. His gaze meets mine and holds it. I have an absurd urge to say something like, ‘Hi,’ and smile at him, but I don’t. This is a suspect, and I am investigating a murder threat.
So why do I want to treat him so tenderly? I wipe his cheeks as more tears flow from his eyes, and in spite of the crying, he manages something like a smile.
“You’re alright now,” I tell him softly.
He huffs, then murmurs, “I’ve made a huge mistake.”
“Yeah,” I reply, keeping my breath steady. I’ve gotten plenty of people to confess to terrible things over the years. I know what to do. “I understand.”
“I just got caught up, you know?”
“Yeah.” Oh god, is this it? Is this the moment? I’m not sure I’m prepared for this. If he admits any of it, I’m going to have to take him in.
I lean back, staring at his now-clean face. The goggles sit in his hair, pushing it up at an awkward angle, but instead of looking silly, he just looks cuter. There’s that flutter in my belly again.
“I’ll be better, I swear. I just need Michael to stop doing everything in his power to ruin my life.”
“You could let him go.”
“Ha. I wish.”
I sigh and then stand up. “Where are your cups? Seems like you need something to drink.”
He gestures vaguely at the row of cupboards hovering above his counter. “I do. I need something very strong. I keep the vodka in my freezer.”
“I was thinking water,” I reply as I move toward the cabinets and scour around. I find a few plastic cups and pull one out, filling it from the fridge spout and handing it to him.
He sips at it, the tip of his nose red from crying. “What’s your name?” he finally asks me, meeting my stare.
“Probably best not to tell you that.”
“Well, you know mine.”
“You had it in your username. Just spelled differently.”
He rolls his eyes. “I guess, yeah. I didn’t exactly think that one through. I’m very bad at being bad.”
“You are.” Shit. Maybe I can save him. It’s the worst thing an agent can think, but I can’t help myself. He’s just so…different.
He huffs a laugh and then sets his cup down. His hands ball into fists and rub his eyes. “I think I need to go to bed. Today has been far too eventful.”
“Yeah.” I really should take him in. I even have enough probable cause. Although meeting someone to buy TNT isn’t technically against the law—well, depending on the permits I can almost guarantee he doesn’t have. But I can’t bring myself to do it.
I tell myself I just need him to incriminate himself more. I need him to let me know where he’s keeping Michael so I can free him before something bad actually happens.
He glances around and then shakes his head. “You can show yourself out?”
“Sure.”
He nods and then stands up and pats his hand against my chest. “Alright, night, Echo.”
He gives me a cute little name sign as he says that. An ‘E’ near the ear, and it makes something in my chest flutter.
Fucking hell. I’m in so much trouble. I’m breaking so many rules with this guy.
And yet, I still don’t leave. Just watch as Leaf turns and leaves a complete stranger in his house. This criminal really does have no sense of self-preservation.
I hear a door close upstairs, and I stand there in his kitchen, looking around, before I decide to show myself outside, to the backyard.
To see if I can find Michael.
Once more, I tell myself to call this in, but I don’t follow protocol. I want to make sure this isn’t some kind of hallucination on Leaf’s part. Maybe there is no Michael.
This has to be one big misunderstanding. Because Leaf doesn’t seem like a criminal. He really doesn’t.
I’ve spent most of my career learning people—learning how they lie, learning how they hide shit and get away with it for ages. It’s not really a surprise when they manage to fool everyday people. Even the ones closest to them. They don’t have the training I do.
Which is why Leaf is throwing me for a loop. I spent the entire time I’ve been face-to-face with him trying to find that tell. That little giveaway that would reveal the true psychopath he was. A monster capable of capturing, torturing, and eventually murdering a man.
But I can’t. It’s not there.
Either Leaf is the best criminal mastermind the world has ever known, or…I’m wrong.
And that’s the reason I’m still walking this property—the reason I’m making this my last case.
If I can go out with a bang—if I can solve something big—if I can save someone, it will be worth it. So I take a few more steps in the opposite direction from where my car is parked.
I wander around the yard, looking inside the sheds, searching for any sign of Michael, but find nothing. The only evidence that what he’s said is somewhat true is the half-eaten vegetable scraps scattered here and there and holes in the ground. Something a rodent would make.
Either way, there’s no Michael here.
Leaving the barn, I pull my mini Maglite and keep the glow as close to the ground as I can. I walk the perimeter of the barn, then venture out toward the apple orchard. There really are a lot of trees and a lot of apples for a man who’s allergic to them.
When I walk back, I take one of the several walking paths between massive garden beds. All of which look pretty torn up. And then I see the camera. It looks like one of those wildlife webcams. There are actually four of them, and they’re all pointed at the vegetables.
Cameras are definitely a red flag, but unless there’s a secret entrance to an underground dungeon somewhere in the dirt, it’s likely Leaf really is just watching his produce. The garden beds do look a bit rough. There are half-eaten zucchini, squash, and cucumber all over.
And the tomatoes look like they were hit with a weed whacker. Not that I know much about gardening. I’ve spent most of my life in the city, living in a very sterile apartment, but still. Something’s had a go at all of this.
I creep around a bit longer, searching the dirt, scuffing it with my foot in hopes that I’ll find some kind of trapdoor, but it looks exactly like what it says on the tin: a run-down, nonfunctional farm.
So maybe, if there is some underground bunker, the entrance isn’t out here.
The only other option would be the house.
I turn my gaze back toward the front door, and I don’t see any lights on.
It’s very clear Leaf has gone to bed, which means if I’m careful and quiet—something I’ve been struggling with since my hearing loss has gotten worse—I might be able to have another look around.
Leaf seemed pretty out of it anyway, so all I can do is hope he’s a heavy sleeper.
I make my way back across the yard, then tiptoe up the porch steps. The door isn’t locked, so I let myself in and once again keep the light close to the ground as I search for something—a hidden door behind a bookshelf, a cellar entrance in the floor covered by furniture.
Just…anything that will give me some reason to either believe that I have the right guy or prove that I have the wrong one.
There’s nothing. My heart sinks into the pit of my stomach as I scan the walls.
There are old photo frames that look like they’ve been there for decades.
Sepia photographs of family, some who look like Leaf and some who don’t.
There are even a couple of childhood photos that resemble him—a wild-haired kid with two missing front teeth.
The rest of the house isn’t like him either, except that it’s chaotic.
But there are half-done crochet projects lying on the back of chairs, which seem like they haven’t been touched in years.
There are doilies on every table, a bowl of hard candy that looks like it expired in the eighties, and three curio cabinets along the far wall with shelves covered in Coca-Cola Bear Christmas ornaments, which I very much doubt Leaf is the one collecting.
What even is this place?
I really need to do some more research into Leaf, the right spelling this time.
I need to figure out why he’s living here, why he owns an apple orchard he’s allergic to, and why he’s so damn cute. Okay, that last one is just for me and my apparent bi-panic because there’s no sense in denying the fact that I want him. He made my dick hard, and it wasn’t from adrenaline.
I stare down at my phone and then pull it up, snapping pictures of anything of interest before moving up the stairs.
I really shouldn’t. I should stay away, but I can’t help it. The stairs creak under my weight, and I wince when my hearing aids pick up the noise, but I don’t stop myself. I just keep creeping.
The hallways are cluttered, the rooms as well. At the far end of the hall is a closed door, and I tell myself not to go in there.
He’s probably sleeping, probably needs a good rest. After the day he had, he probably needs to sleep for a week. But still, my feet move me closer and closer, the floorboards making my hearing aids hum slightly.
Fuck. I should just turn them off. I don’t need them. He signs. We could just not use our voices, but for some reason, I don’t. I’m not sure why, but the thought of only using my hands to communicate with him makes me feel vulnerable.
My fingers land on the door handle, and I turn it slightly, hoping it doesn’t make too much noise.
Holding my breath, I push it open.
The door creaks loudly, and I bite my bottom lip hard. My feet move into the room, and as I realize there’s no one in the bed…
CRACK!
I feel something hit me in the back of the head. Hard. Pain shoots up the back of my neck, my body wobbling slightly.
I hear a muttered curse, an apology, and then I fall to the ground.