30
Doubt
Amanda
Sunday dawns with no word from the guys. I try calling again and get the same results: voicemail for Ace and nothing for Mikael’s phone.
What to do. I can’t sit here for much longer doing nothing. I haven’t eaten, and I’m not hungry in the least. I don’t even look at the kitchen. It makes my stomach turn, and that doom feeling starts up. Like the fridge is going to fall on me or something.
Instead of floundering around like a useless lump I decide to do my own PI work. I know which property the golf course is supposed to be on. Maybe I can poke around and see if there’s any building going on?
I don’t know. I’m bored and restless, and no one is capable of picking up a phone. I try again, just in case. Nothing.
I shower, dress, and leave the apartment. When I open the door, a flutter of red paper greets me. I frown as I pull it down.
An eviction notice. I have to leave immediately. Yeah, right. The company logo at the bottom is Matthias LLC this time. As a threat, this one lacks something. Namely authenticity. I can’t wait to show this to Ace. He will lose it for sure. I fold it up and put it in my back pocket for later.
I catch a ride out to the site and continue calling the guys randomly. What the hell are they doing? Can’t they see this is important?
Oh shit. What if Gabriel told them I slept with him? Did he rate my performance as a zero of ten stars and they’re backtracking? God, the timing sucks on this. Just my luck. I’m ready to start a group chat so they both suffer at the same time. They can shut me out as a romantic partner, but this is important.
I refuse to listen to that ache in my chest every time I pick up the phone. It’s blending with the doom feeling until I can’t tell which one is more annoying.
“Are you sure this is the place?” The driver asks, pulling my attention off the phone.
I look out at the bland, sandy stretch with a frown.
“Yeah,” I mutter. That feeling of slow-building doom starts getting more intense, matching the rhythm of my heart.
That clinches it. I don’t have a damn superpower to sense danger. There’s nothing out here but sand and a few hills. Maybe I’m having a stroke. That sounds more like my luck.
“Would you mind waiting?”
“I can’t,” he tells me curiously. “I’ve got another pickup scheduled. I can swing back by, though.”
Good enough?
“Thanks.” I pay him and get out. The further he drives away, the worse the doom feeling gets.
“This is ridiculous. It’s sand! ”
I kick a small pile of it and sputter as the wind catches it to throw it in my face.
“Wow,” I rub my eyes. “So dangerous.”
With a shake of my head and a few pulls at my shirt to dislodge dirt, I start moving.
Sand. Sand. More sand.
There aren’t any signs for construction or taped-off areas. Little flags saying, hey, here’s the water line. Nothing.
The wind picks up, making the walk truly miserable. I hope that guy comes back quickly. The combination of the wind and the blazing sunlight was a horrible idea. This is what traveling through the desert must feel like.
The closer I get to the center of the area, the worse the feeling gets.
“What is there to be scared of out here!” I scream in frustration. My wild hand gesture of rage shifts me in the dirt, causing me to lose my balance. I stumble a step, my foot catches on something solid, and I pitch face-first onto the ground.
I lay there for a minute, more shocked than hurt.
The pressure on my chest is crushing now. If this is what a panic attack feels like, I’d like to skip it.
I roll to my back and uselessly spit out sand. A gust of wind comes up and sprays more in my face.
“Damn it,” I snap and sit up.
A gleam of metal catches my eye. Whatever I tripped over is a foot away from me. The wind rips through again and uncovers more of it while I sputter.
A handle?
Now that I’m looking around, I realize I’m in a tiny divot. The wind is coming down one side and pushing the dirt to the other. I stand and take it in from higher up. More metal sparkles at me. What the hell?
I brush some of the dirt aside and realize it’s a door. In the middle of the ground. What is this, a bomb shelter?
I scramble to get the sand out of the way, fighting the wind the entire time. I have so much caked on me that I feel like a piece of sandpaper just made out with me. I need to get out of here before it reaches third base.
When I stand back to take in the uncovered door, my chest feels like it’s caving in.
“I’m not listening to you or South’s belief in stupid superpowers. You and the Invisible Irritation can fuck off.”
I yank on the door, filled with stubborn determination, almost falling on my ass in surprise. It’s lightweight enough that the forceful tug was too much. And it’s unlocked. The genius of it all.
“There you have it. Unlocked. Stupid superpower. What’s next? Tripping down the stairs? Been there, done that several times at the apartment.”
It’s dark. This door might be regular-sized but the stairs are wide enough a football team could walk down side by side. I can barely see a second door at the end of the stairs. They’re covered in red carpet.
“How swanky,” I mutter dryly in disgust. Now that it’s coated in a fine layer of dirt, it looks less posh.
I dig my phone out and turn on the flashlight.
The pressure increases on my chest. Out of peer pressure, I take the stairs slowly.
It leads down for a second. I can see where the lights are above me. Mini chandeliers. What the hell kind of prepper bunker is this?
The second set of doors is unlocked, which makes me roll my eyes hard enough to hurt.
When I pass through, the floor turns into marble tile instead of carpet. I blink down at it in confusion, then look around. It’s an entrance, much like a hotel, with a concierge desk and wide open space. There are couches, side tables, and a giant chandelier in the center of a domed ceiling. I didn’t realize the descent was that far. Despite all of that, it’s dank and smells wet, a little moldy. With all the sand upstairs, I didn’t think that was possible.
No wonder no work has gone on up there. All the money was spent on this. How big could this place be?
There’s only one way to find out.
Since I’m here and determined to snoop I turn on the camera function for posterity. If I trip over anything, it will be caught on camera. Welcome to the tour no one asked for.
The place doesn’t look ready to open despite the posh atmosphere. There aren’t any computers for a check-in or an office behind the desk. A set of open double doors that runs floor to ceiling are on my left. It looks like a sitting room.
I move through it slowly, taking in the rich décor. Paintings that remind me of Loser’s style. Leather couches and armchairs. Tables with ashtrays. A bar without any alcohol or glasses and a humidor for cigars that sits empty. The damp chill has gotten worse, and so has the subtle smell of mold. The ceiling has ventilation in it. I don’t know where the ducts are up above. I’d have to trip over one to find it, I guess. They’re going to have to have a building to provide shelter for them. A shack over the door to keep it hidden.
But why is it hidden?
I pass through the next set of double doors into a restaurant. It could easily seat fifty people or more at a time. There are white tablecloths over each table. Everything looks ready to go, as if a waiter is going to come out from nowhere and offer to seat me.
A side door leads to a fancy kitchen that looks like a five-star chef’s dream come true. Giant ovens. Plenty of counter space. Ventilation everywhere. A walk-in freezer and a giant fridge.
On a whim, I open the fridge and gag. The smell is horrible. I slam it closed quickly, praying the smell will somehow dissipate. It doesn’t, clinging to me with an almost violent stench.
Someone was ready for this place to open up. I think that was leftover fruit and vegetables, but without a solid form, I can’t tell. The electricity was on at some point if that’s in there.
Out of self-defense and desperation, I run back to the seating area and through the next set of double doors.
My feet freeze, and I can’t help the scoff that comes out. It’s a textbook strip club with raised stages and poles. Several tables are scattered throughout, along with booths and another bar. It’s like a cattle chute for rich men. There’s only one entrance and another set of doors wide open on the other side. These doors look heavy as hell. All metal with serious locks to keep people out.
“That would be more impressive if they were actually used,” I mock, taking in the clear stages that have lights inside them for the best show they can put on.
I pass through into a hallway with doors on either side.
“And so, the nightmare begins.” My voice has fallen into a hush as if I’m in a library.
It’s suddenly not as funny to be here. The second I pass the threshold that doom feeling becomes so intense it’s hard to breathe. As I gasp for air another smell starts up. It’s almost like the vegetables from the fridge but a little different. Oh God, what if there’s another one down here, and the door is open?
I’m tempted to turn around and get out of here, but curiosity has taken me over. I’m already here. The place is empty, no matter what my freaky paranoia says. Unless there’s a tragic collapse, I’m fine.
Why did I think that?
I hurry to the first door, determined to rush through the rest of this. It opens up to a bedroom with red wallpaper. Who picked that? The bed is enormous and covered with black silk sheets. Huh. I guess it is a hotel. The oddest part is how it’s the centerpiece to the room and there isn’t a door for a closet or bathroom.
“Oh, gross!” I cringe as it strikes me that this is a brothel.
I back out and take in the rest of the closed doors with a grimace.
A tickle of thought comes to me, and I reluctantly look back at the room. Something about this seems awfully familiar.
It comes to me in a snap.
“The pictures,” I whisper in disbelief.
Every single picture of Loser with his flavor of the day/week/month had the same wallpaper and sheets in them. That means that this place was up and running at some point. There were lights on in each of them. And Loser came here. Often enough to fill up a shoe box worth of pictures.
I shudder with disgust and turn back to the rest of the doors.
“Might as well,” I mutter, no longer in the mood for a tour. And that smell. It’s awful. Maybe a leftover sex stench instead of rotten cabbage. I’ll take Gabe’s cologne over it any day.
Each door I open is the same thing. Some of them have sex toys lining the walls that make my jaw drop. A few have panels with clear glass where someone can sit on the other side and watch what’s happening in the bedroom. The further I go, the more violent the sex toys look. There is no way that is going to fit inside a woman. No way.
At the end, there’s a room with several long tables and comfortable chairs. It breaks up the sleazy theme of the bedrooms. The bar at the back of the room is different. It’s subtle and not at the same time. Behind it is a set of clear doors that stand open. I think it’s another humidor until I step inside. The room is lined with shelves and clear plastic containers that are vividly marked with engraved plaques.
Cocaine. Marijuana. Fentanyl. Any drug I can think of is labeled. Even some I’ve never heard of. If cops raided this place everyone would go down from this room alone. It’s empty except for one bin in the very back that has a few bags of pills in it. I’m not touching it.
I leave in a rush and debate on going further. The air has gotten more stale this far in and that rotting scent is getting stronger. More meat-based than vegetable. I don’t know if I’m brave enough to witness the tragedy of another fridge.
“Stop wussing out! You decided to do this, so get it over with!”
The pep talk gets my anger pumping and my feet moving. I pass down an echoing corridor without doors. All the posh decorations have ended. The floor isn’t carpeted or marble. It’s like they gave up after the drug room. Or ran out of money.
It’s dismal this far in, and between the rotting smell, I’m hit with the stench of urine and what I hope is not poop. The lighting looks industrial instead of decorative. If there was electricity, the whole hallway would be flooded with bright light.
“Weird,” I mutter, panting as my chest aches with dread. It’s starting to hurt.
I turn a corner, and another door greets me—another metal one with locks all over it. It’s wide open, but I’m suddenly too scared to step inside.
The smell has become overwhelming. I have to cover my nose with my shirt to pretend I can filter it out, and my eyes are starting to water.
I shuffle to the doorway and shine my light inside.
Metal cages greet me. Each one has a cot inside and a metal toilet—a miniature prison. Chains are in the middle of each one with a single cuff and the end welded into the floor.
My heart starts pumping double time as I walk in. There are twenty cages in all.
There were twenty rooms.
Oh God.
This is bad. This is really bad.
All those pictures. I recognized a few women, but not all of them.
I gag at the thought as I pass the cages. The wall at the end is covered in tools. Instead of sex toys, these are torture instruments. There’s what looks like a first aid section, too. It’s beyond horrifying.
What’s even worse are the tools I come across lying on the ground between two cages with dried blood on them.
At least, I’m assuming it’s blood. Please let it be an overactive imagination. Let this all be some kind of fucked up dream caused by too many murder documentaries.
I’m an idiot because I move toward it to make sure I’m delusional. Despite the doom feeling, the panic, the horror, I keep going.
A camera smashed into pieces is next to a knife lying in a dried circle of darkness.
It isn’t until I see the tennis shoes that I start gagging.
Whoever this was, they died a while ago. And it’s the source of most of the smells. I catch a glimpse of thin gray hair and a casual running suit that looks like it’s from the seventies. The dried puddle underneath him is convincing. The random knife holes in his back and the slit throat almost look movie worthy.
But this isn’t a movie.
I jerk away from the sight and spin to vomit. I can’t help it. I’ve never seen a dead body in real life before. It’s mostly bile because I can’t remember the last time I ate.
I just contaminated a crime scene.
I’m running before I can process much more than that. I don’t think I’ve ever been this fast before. I almost fall when I get to the stairs leading to the entrance, suddenly convinced that someone shut the door behind me and I’ll be trapped here forever.
Just like that body.
It’s still open. A shining light I’m desperate to see hits the stairs, urging me on. I’m up them in a snap and out in fresh air where I heave again. I was down there long enough that it’s almost sunset.
My mind is rolling with horror. I throw the door shut with a bang that echoes in the open air.
What do I do? What do I do!?
I fumble my phone, stop the recording, and start calling the guys one after another. I have to tell them about this. I have to!
Gabriel will know what to do. He’s always calm and cold. He can talk me through this.
That feeling of crushing doom hits me right in the lungs. I’m shaking so hard I drop the phone. I lean down to pick it up and feel a hot wind pass over my shoulder, followed by a loud boom of thunder. A kick of dirt sprays out of the little hill in front of me. I blink for a second and glance over my shoulder.
Two figures are approaching with guns drawn.
Did they just try to shoot me?
My panic reaching overdrive, I snatch the phone up and start running. It’s difficult work with the sand shifting all around me. The wind picks up hard enough that I’m surrounded by dirt. It smacks me in the face, bringing my visibility down until I’m convinced I’m running in circles. I’m too scared to look over my shoulder and see if they’re behind me.
The wind cuts out, and suddenly, I can see. Right in front of me is the same driver from before. My eyes widen at the sight as I slam into the side of the vehicle and then manage to get the door open to fall in.
“Go!” I shriek wildly.
The guy takes one look at me and guns it, even with my feet hanging outside the open door. I curl up just in time for him to spin in a U-turn. Gravity takes over and slams the door shut for me.
“Jesus, lady! What happened?”
I’m sobbing on the seat, curled into a ball.
I have to think. I don’t have time to cry!
They had to have some kind of security system that went off, letting them know someone had broken in. Are there cameras? Would they work without electricity? Do they know it was me?
I keep dialing, but no one is picking up!
“Come on, come on !” I scream, ready to throw the damn phone out the window.
“Are you calling the cops?” He’s staring into the rearview mirror with wide eyes.
Cops? I freeze up.
I can’t call the police. Or a lawyer. Or a judge. Oh God. The enormity of what I just found hits me like a ton of bricks. Loser has been down there. And they’re all buddies working together like busy little ants.
“N-no. Just take me home, ok?” I beg him. “Please.”
“Ok. Ok,” he mutters. He goes back to concentrating on his driving, but his eyes keep flicking back to the rearview mirror as I desperately call over and over.
Where is South’s number? Or Shade’s? I thought I had them. Shade used my phone at one point. I try the call history and find nothing. I just want to reach somebody!
The driver squeals to a stop in the parking lot, and I throw some money at him as I run.
What if they saw it was me? What if Blake saw? He knows where I live.
The steps don’t matter anymore. I make it up them just fine.
I need to pack a bag. There has to be somewhere to go. I’ll grab some stuff and wait at the Matthias building. Or would they expect that? Blake knows I work there. Shit!
It isn’t until I’m in the doorway that I realize my door is hanging by one hinge, wide open. A single glance is all I need to turn around and run back the way I came.
My apartment is in shambles. The cabinets opened, and ramen packages spilled everywhere. Even the fridge door is open. The drawer full of photos is missing. My clothes are everywhere. I didn’t see much else, but I didn’t have to. Whoever did this knows, and I’m in deep shit.
I can’t go back to the Matthias building and hide out. I’ll have to wait for Harriette to open the doors. Eight o’clock. Can I make it until then?
I’m on the second-floor landing, ready to take another step when something shoves between my shoulder blades.
With my foot raised to take the first step and the phone in my hand I have no way to catch myself. I land on my belly hard enough to bruise and slide painfully. The sudden dazed confusion comes to a hard stop when my face smacks into the ground of the first floor.
Dark fuzzy spots take over as my brain tries to figure out what just happened. I was running. I slipped again. No. I was pushed . I’m too stunned to stand up and face whoever did this.
As I lie there, half my body on the steps, the other half flat on the floor, someone leaps over me and runs for it. I squint, trying to make out who it could be but it’s useless. There’s something wrong with my eye.
Everything falls quiet as I catch my breath. The impending doom feeling slowly dissipates. I’d gotten so used to it that the slow withdrawal feels like a tension inside me easing up. And then the pain starts.
My knee and hip. My breasts. My face.
I gingerly sit up, trying to take stock of my wounds. My knee is a little swollen, and the denim of my pants feels tight. The scrape on my arm opened back up but it’s a sluggish bleeding. I reach gingerly to my head and find a painful cut bisecting one eyebrow. It’s bleeding and mixing with my sweat to sting my eye. All in all, I’m damn lucky I didn’t break my neck.
I need to get out of here.
I hurry to my phone and find the glass shattered. I should have paid the extra money for the case. I thought I had good enough luck with phones that I could buy one later. Hindsight. The screen lights up, though. I start calling again, even more desperate and limp out.
No one is in the parking lot. It’s almost dark. A few hours and then the building will open. Even if they’re ignoring me, I can make enough of a commotion to get their attention. I have video proof right in my hands.
An image of each of their faces flashes in my mind’s eye as I take back alleys with no clear destination in mind. Jake will smile innocently. Cade won’t believe me. Ace and Mikael will hover. Gabriel will get a cold look and tell us all what we need to do. Can they hide me? Will they even want to?
Until I reach them, I have no clue.
Bad guys would expect me to go to a clinic to get checked out. Instead, I find a gas station and clean up as best I can. By the time I’m done with the soap dispenser my arms and face are clean. The cut on my eyebrow is hardly noticeable. With the bandages I purchased it gets covered up. The swelling is minor. I look normal if you don’t count the stubborn sand lingering all over me and the messy hair I can’t do anything about. Pulling the hair tie out makes my eyes water with pain. I’ll leave it down.
I wander until it’s fully dark and end up at a twenty-four-hour diner. It’s dim inside, with very few windows—perfect. I sit down in the back and keep dialing. I’m stuck staring at the entrance, sipping coffee that does nothing to keep my hands from shaking, and listening to the phone ring all night. When the battery dies, I set the phone down and wait for dawn.