8. Knox
KNOX
Despite me losing track of our mystery girl last night, Michael was able to run the license plate to confirm Blondie’s identity—twenty-two-year-old Miss Annaleigh Evans—and something’s rotten in Denmark.
Because dear old Anna is a ghost.
The guys and I have searched every corner of the internet, and the girl just doesn’t exist. No social media, no government database, no people search websites.
Nobody’s ever heard of her.
Without any additional intel, I’ve got to learn about her the old-fashioned way. Well, with a little bit of technical advancements.
You can learn a lot by studying somebody’s daily routines, so I visit her apartment complex come nightfall. Again, not what I was expecting. Like the Sunfire, her living arrangements don’t match what I had in mind. The place is far from a shithole, but it’s not the Ritz either.
All the better for me.
Places like this don’t usually fork out too much in the name of security.
They do the bare minimum just to get by.
Even better, when I arrive, it’s clear one of her neighbors is throwing a party.
I keep a baseball cap pulled low over my eyes and walk behind a group heading towards the building as if I belong with them.
I “accidentally” drop my keys as I’m passing by her car and bend down to pick them up, where I just so happen to place a magnetic GPS tracker on the underside of the vehicle.
It also helps that one of the guys in front of me is already shitfaced, calling me “M-Dog” and slinging an arm over my shoulder as we all head inside the building.
He thinks I’m his friend Mason, and I’m not about to correct him, passing by the attendant at the lobby desk who doesn’t spare us a first look, let alone a second.
He’s not security, just a glorified delivery signer.
I familiarize myself with the building, noting any and all cameras (which aren’t many), along with potential entrances and exits.
Ms. Annaleigh’s apartment is on the third floor, but despite the party being on the sixth, I can assume the layouts are pretty much the same.
The building was constructed back in the eighties, so the concrete walls provide decent soundproofing, far better than the apartments made these days, which is good.
Because all of the tenants like things loud .
It’s just after nine o’clock, and even with how thick the doors are, I can still hear The Love Boat theme blaring from one apartment as the next-door neighbor sounds like they’re getting murdered.
The scream is muffled but still distinctly feminine, and no one’s concerned enough to investigate it.
I’d be tempted to break down the door if not for the vocals turning into moans as the woman demands that her partner go “Harder!”
I laugh, but I’m also horny as all get-out, because I can’t help but wonder what Blondie sounds like when she climaxes.
What is she doing right now? Is she in the shower? Is she listening to another one of her neighbors going at it? Is she lying in bed and touching herself in rhythm with the soundtrack?
I have no way of knowing.
And that’s all I’ll continue doing.
Not knowing a goddamn thing.
Because she doesn’t leave her apartment for the next three fucking days.
At first, I thought maybe the tracker had fallen off, that maybe I would find it lying on the pavement of the parking lot.
But nope. When I revisit the building, I find the Sunfire still sitting in the same spot out front, its back tire still pinning down the McDonald’s burger wrapper as it had been on Saturday.
The car hasn’t moved an inch.
Feeling all the more like a creeper, I pull into the lot across the street belonging to a dog park once the sun sets and break out a pair of binoculars.
From what I was able to determine at the party, Blondie’s apartment should consist of two windows, one for each bedroom, and a balcony.
I’m pretty sure I’m looking at the correct set, watching the buzz of activity from two out of the three.
The lights in the first bedroom continually flip on and off, and a shadow keeps moving between there and the main living space.
Eventually, a brunette steps out onto the balcony and begins smoking what I can assume is a joint based on how she’s holding it.
Is that Anna’s sister? Or her roommate? Girlfriend?
The latter doesn’t seem likely. Not when the brunette waves at a car pulling up to the building a few minutes later.
She disappears back inside and shuts all the lights off before I see her emerge out the front door shortly after.
The driver greets her with a kiss, and the two take off.
All the while, the second bedroom in the apartment remains dormant, the window shades drawn.
The only sign of light is the dim flicker visible around the seams of the window. Likely from a television.
There’s a chance Blondie has just been hiding out in her bedroom until the brunette leaves, so I stay where I am. I’m not about to risk going inside, only for her to waltz out into the living room, ready to enjoy her time alone by binge-watching something on Netflix.
I doubt she’ll be happy to find a masked man in her apartment, and I doubt it even more that she won’t call the police.
So I sit.
And sit.
And sit.
For fuck’s sake. Two hours go by, and there hasn’t been any sign of movement from inside the apartment. I have no idea when the brunette will be back, and at this rate, I suspect Blondie may never leave her place again unless the building catches fire.
I make an executive decision and grab my bag.
Since the other tenants have been my only source of entertainment, I’m well aware that the older couple in the unit below her is already in bed, the lights in the living room turned off over an hour ago.
As for the ground unit, I suspect it’s vacant.
There aren’t any curtains on the windows, and there hasn’t been any sign of movement or light, ensuring no one will notice me on their balconies or the patio on my way up.
The only cameras I’ve been able to detect are located at the front and back entrances of the building, and with the exterior being slate gray, I seriously doubt anybody from the street will be able to see me in the dark either.
It’s also a little alarming how easily I’m able to scale the balconies. You’ve got nothing but time in prison, and it seems doing all those pull-ups wasn’t for naught.
In barely a few breaths, I’m hauling myself onto Blondie’s balcony.
The sliding glass door is the same as the one on the sixth floor, and both look to be as old as the building. Its locking mechanism is relatively simple, but good fortune favors me even more tonight.
Because the brunette may have closed the door, but she forgot to lock up.
The wall vibrates from her neighbor’s music, drowning out the slight squeal that comes as I slide the balcony door open.
The only light source in the living room is a salt lamp, but it’s enough for me to see that everything here looks like it came out of an IKEA catalog.
There’s no discernible style. It’s all just attractively bland .
Usually the result of roommates with clashing tastes. When you can’t agree on anything, you both settle for something neutral.
And it seems no one’s keen on taking care of anything alive, because there aren’t any signs of a dog, cat, or even goldfish. Even the plants are fake.
That last factor is a major upside.
Thanks to Georgia lending me her hidden camera, I’ll be able to get some intel on Blondie even after I leave. Over a hundred hours of battery life, if the salesman is to be believed.
And the tall plant in the corner provides me with the perfect view of the living room while also allowing me a glimpse into the kitchen and foyer.
Ensuring the coast is clear, I mount the camera onto the plant, relieved to see the stem and dark leaves make the lens nearly undetectable.
Unless she begins examining the plant, she won’t see it.
My heart threatens to lodge itself up into my throat at the sound of a door opening down the hall.
I dive behind an armchair, but what good will that do me if she comes in here and sits on the couch? Or what if she’s just going into the kitchen but notices the patio door still ajar?
Every horrible possibility flashes through my mind in the ten seconds it takes for me to hear footsteps head into the hall…only for another door to close.
I don’t dare to move or even breathe too loudly for the next minute until I hear the distinguishable rush of water.
She’s in the bathroom…and just turned on the shower.
Recovering from my heart attack, I pull myself up and make use of what little time I have, starting with getting a mold of the apartment key hanging up.
And since Blondie left her door open with the TV and computer monitor on, I can clearly see no one else is in the bedroom when I get to the end of the hall.
Unlike the shared living space’s beige and brown aesthetic, Blondie prefers black and dark blue.
It makes up everything from the furniture, bedspread, knick-knacks, and even the wall behind her bed.
I look more closely at the last, realizing it’s that peel-and-stick wallpaper made to look like marble.
Nothing is inherently amiss inside her closet and dresser drawers.
No firearms, or bags of cash, or multiple driver’s licenses with different names on them.
She seems perfectly normal. Though, there’s something artificial about the space.
Surface level. There aren’t any photographs on display, mementos in the drawers, or even a childhood stuffed animal stowed in her closet.
I don’t see a single keepsake. The only thing she has is an abundance of clothes and shoes.
I couldn’t tell you the first things about fashion, but I know how to read labels, and these aren’t the brand names you see at Walmart or Target. This is the expensive shit.