Chapter 2 Collette
The sharp click of the lock echoed in Andy's apartment, a sound that resonated with finality as I stepped inside. The police had finally released his property to me, not before they'd scoured every inch, their sterile gloves rifling through the remnants of my brother's life, leaving behind an unsettling orderliness in their wake. With a deep breath that tasted of dust and loss, I closed the door behind me, letting my hand linger on the knob.
"Okay, Andy," I murmured to the stillness around me, "let's find out what happened to you."
The sorrow coiling around my heart was tempered by a fierce determination. Andy had been more than family. He was my protector, my ally in a world that had shown us little kindness. We had survived the foster system together, a bond forged in adversity that not even death could sever.
Andy and I hadn’t been born to the same parents, but he was the only family I’d ever claimed. More importantly, he was the only person who’d ever chosen me. Foster care had brought us together. Life had wedged between us, something neither of us should’ve let happen. If it hadn’t, he wouldn't be dead now. I wouldn't have allowed it.
Grad school and working on my master’s degree had been time-consuming. It wasn’t an excuse, but I could’ve made more of an effort. How hard was it to pick up the phone and call? We chatted on social media messenger all the time and texted, but it wasn’t the same as visits and calls.
Grief flooded me once again. A sob squeezed in my throat, but I held it in. I’d been so self-centered, I hadn’t noticed that it had been almost a year since we’d last gotten together. What kind of sister was I that I hadn’t realized how long it’d been?
I surveyed the living room, my eyes tracing over the sparse furnishings that told tales of a life abruptly paused. There was the couch, its gray fabric devoid of any indentation that would signify long evenings spent lounging. No throw pillows adorned it, no blankets tossed carelessly over the back. It was simply functional, untouched by the personal quirks that characterize a home.
"Never one for decorating, were you?" I said, half-expecting Andy to emerge from the kitchen with his lopsided grin, ready to joke about his bachelor pad aesthetics.
We’d been inseparable in the early days. Together, we’d been certain that we could take on the world.
Three years older than me, Andy’d gotten a start on his life much sooner than I had. First, he’d gone off to college, but on weekends we’d hung and chilled, the same as always. He’d made time for me. As the years went by, there were girls, work, and lots of papers due. It had made it harder and harder to get together as often.
I’d graduated high school and moved to UCLA for my undergrad, making getting together even tougher than before. Frequent phone calls had slowed down to a trickle by the time grad school hit.
My master’s degree in library science had kicked my ass. I hadn’t had time for relationships or friendships. Or even my brother.
Now, the one person who I’d always counted on was gone. Supposedly there were stages of grief, but after I had cried and wiped my tears, I was certain they'd missed one out—revenge.
The coffee table was equally barren. No books, no magazines, not even a coaster to suggest that this was a space lived in and loved. The absence of these details felt like an indictment, a silent commentary on the isolation that Andy must have felt, even if he’d never voiced it. I hadn’t known. He’d usually come to me. I’d been so damn busy, I’d always appreciated that he would be willing to come to UCLA.
Andy’s apartment was a stark contrast to my own, where shelves overflowed with books and mementos, each item a chapter of my story. Here, the walls were bare, the air pregnant with a silence that swallowed my footsteps as I moved deeper into the space.
"Did you ever feel at home here, Andy?" The question hung in the air, unanswered. The emptiness gnawed at me, a physical ache that mirrored the hollow ache in my chest. He deserved more, so much more than this cold arrangement of furniture and blank spaces.
The scent of industrial cleaners lingered, a testament to the thoroughness of the investigation. Had they been as lost as I was, searching for clues in a place that revealed nothing of the man who lived here?
The couch cushions were as unyielding as they appeared, giving nothing away as my hands searched beneath them, finding nothing but the gritty texture of crumbs and dust that had accumulated over time, but no hidden slips of paper or concealed hard drives met my fingertips. It was as barren of secrets as it was of comfort.
I turned my attention to the coffee table, a simple piece, more functional than decorative. The surface bore faint rings from countless mugs of coffee, reminders of late nights or early mornings – instances of life now frozen in time. I slid open the drawer, hoping for something overlooked, but found only a scattering of pens.
My search felt futile, like trying to grasp smoke with bare hands. Frustrated, I stood back and scanned the room, taking in the bare walls devoid of photographs or paintings. No shelves lined with books or trinkets. The emptiness gnawed at me, a physical manifestation of loss.
I rubbed my temples where a headache began to pulse. He was smart. Too smart to just leave things lying around. And he’d liked to hide anything that meant something to him when we were children.
My gaze settled on the vents; thin slits cut into the anonymity of the walls. A hiding spot? It was something out of a spy novel, but then again, Andy's life had taken a turn towards the kind of plot found on a dog-eared paperback's pages.
Worth a shot. I approached the nearest vent, kneeling before it. The metal cover was cold against my fingers as I unscrewed it with the little multi-tool I kept on my keychain, the sound echoing softly in the barren room. I half-expected to find a cache of documents or a digital lifeline to Andy's past.
But when I peered inside, there was nothing but darkness and the faint smell of circulated air. I shone the flashlight from my phone into the void, revealing only dust bunnies.
"Of course." I sighed, replacing the cover with a sense of deflation. It couldn’t be that easy.
I moved methodically from one vent to the next, removing covers and peering into the ducts with dwindling hope. Each hollow cavity was a testament to the futility of my search. The apartment was giving up none of its ghosts.
"Damn it, Andy.” With each fruitless attempt, I moved further from the truth, as if it were slipping through my fingers, grain by elusive grain.
Dragging my feet, I crossed the threshold into Andy's bedroom, the door creaking shut behind me. The rest of the apartment had yielded nothing, and I was hoping that this room—where he had laid his head to rest each night—would whisper some secret to me.
The room was as austere as a monk's cell. A bed with a plain gray comforter sat against the far wall underneath a window thatshowed nothing but the brick wall of the adjacent building. Across from it, a pine dresser bore a thin layer of dust—unremarkable except for its emptiness. In the corner, a small TV perched atop a metal stand, its screen reflecting my forlorn image back at me.
I approached the bed, my hands trailing over the coarse fabric of the cheap comforter. My gaze traveled up to the headboard, a simple construction of dark wood.
"Is this all there is?" I asked, though I knew Andy wouldn't answer. My fingers found the edge of the headboard, exploring its surface for anomalies. I could almost feel him watching me, a silent sentinel urging me to look closer, pressing and tapping at the wood, hoping for a hollow sound or a shift beneath my touch. My heart raced—part hope, part fear—as I inspected every inch of the headboard with meticulous care.
There! One of the panels was wider than the rest by a fraction of an inch. A barely perceptible difference in the otherwise uniform row, a slight irregularity that had only revealed itself under my close examination. There was a click, soft as a whisper as I pushed against it, and the section of the panel slid aside. A tiny shiver of shock rippled through me, and my breath caught in my throat. My fingers slid along the smooth surface of the hidden drawer, cool to the touch, as if it were keeping secrets as cold as death itself.
"Come on," I coaxed the headboard. The compartment slid out with surprising ease, silent and smooth like something from a spy movie. I had half-expected a squeak or a groan from the wood, some cinematic sound effect to accompany the revelation. But Andy's apartment wasn't Hollywood; it was a stark reality—a reality where my brother no longer existed.
Anticipation tingled at my fingertips, an electric current of what ifs and maybes. I imagined finding a journal, perhaps—pages filled with Andy's near-illegible handwriting, offering explanations, reasons, or even just his thoughts. Or maybe a USB drive, loaded with data he'd stolen from someone dangerous, someone who'd do anything to keep their secrets buried.
"Be something good," I whispered, as much a plea as a demand. The unfinished wood grain was rough against my palm, my other hand hovering over the contents of the compartment, not yet ready to reveal its secrets. The air felt thick, charged with expectation, and I took a deep breath, lifting my head to watch the dust motes that danced in a shaft of light spilling from the window.
I reached in, the interior cool against my skin, contrasting with the adrenaline-fueled heat flooding my body. My fingers brushed against something. I pulled it out quickly. Money.
The bundle of cash weighed heavy in my hands, a tangible reminder of Andy's absence. The scent of paper and ink mingled with the faint odor of metal from the hidden compartment, each bill crisply bundled together, untouched by the chaos that had taken his life. I fanned out the stacks on the bed, counting silently. There was enough here to keep me afloat, enough to give me the time I needed to chase down his killer without the distraction of my day-to-day grind.
"Thank you, Andy," I whispered, running my fingers over the cool bills. "You're still looking out for me."
Tucked beneath the last stack was something far less conspicuous—a single business card, stark against the green currency. My fingers itched as I picked it up, flipping it over. Holdt Technologies. The name sent a shiver down my spine, not out of fear but recognition. It was a giant in the tech industry, its logo ubiquitous, a beacon of innovation and power based right here in San Francisco.
"Of all things..." I murmured, thumb tracing the embossed lettering. What could Andy possibly have had to do with a company like that?
There, on the back of the card, scrawled in what I recognized as Andy's horrible handwriting, was a cell phone number, the ink slightly smudged from handling. He must have scribbled it down in a rush, perhaps during a meeting or a chance encounter. It was personal, direct. Not the sort of thing found on the business cards passed around at networking events.
"Who were you talking to at Holdt?" I questioned the silent room, as if the walls could whisper back secrets. My heart hammered with the possibility of answers, the potential lead that this name and number represented. But underneath that anticipation, a coil of dread tightened. I was about to tread into waters much deeper than I ever anticipated.
The doorknob was cold. I twisted it and stepped out of Andy’s apartment, the space where he had lived and laughed, now just a hollow echo chamber of memories. The cash in my purse felt like stones weighing down on my conscience, and I clutched the business card like a lifeline.
My heels clicked on the pavement, counting down the distance between vengeance and me. My breaths came out in hurried clouds, mingling with the exhaust fumes and the scent of overripe trash from the alleyways. Each step was urgent, as if time were slipping through my fingers like grains of sand, each one precious, irreplaceable.
"Taxi!" I called out. A yellow cab veered toward me, its tires screeching slightly against the tarmac. I gave the FBI’s address to the driver, not missing the curious glance he shot me in the rearview mirror. But I was past caring about prying eyes.
"Rough night?" He tried making small talk.
"Longer than you can imagine," I said, tersely, staring out the window. Beyond the glass, the world was a blur of gray buildings and swarming people, all moving to the rhythm of survival, oblivious to the undercurrents that threatened to pull me under.
"Here we are," the driver announced sooner than I expected, pulling up outside a nondescript building that housed my last beacon of hope.
After paying the driver, I stepped onto the curb, my senses heightened. The afternoon air was sharp, carrying with it the promise of rain. People rushed past, their faces etched with the weariness of life, but none bore the burden I carried. The weight of the situation settled on my shoulders like a lead cloak as I entered the building. Inside, the sterile smell of cleaning fluid did nothing to cleanse the turmoil inside me.
"Can I help you?" a receptionist asked, her tone practiced and indifferent.
"I need to see Agent Ingrid Bench. It's urgent," I said, my voice steady despite the storm brewing within.
"Name?"
"Collette DeLandro."
"Take a seat. I'll let her know you're here."
I nodded, though I didn’t sit. Instead, I paced, my footsteps silent on the plush carpet, but screaming in my head. The clock on the wall ticked tauntingly, each second elongating into an eternity of waiting. I ran my thumb over the embossed letters on the business card, feeling them like braille, reading a message only I could understand.
Ingrid had become a loyal friend these past few weeks. One of the only friends I had.
No one else even cared that my foster brother had gone missing only to be discovered dead in another country.
"Ms. DeLandro?"
I turned to see a woman beckoning me with a nod, her eyes kind yet weary from battles fought behind closed doors. Ingrid's office awaited, a sanctum where maybe, just maybe, I'd find the answers I sought.
The door swung open with a gentle creak, and the world I'd been bracing against seemed to pause. Ingrid Bench's office was a complete contrast to the chaos of my own mind—orderly, with every file, every book in its rightful place. The scent of worn leather mixed with the faintest hint of jasmine from a solitary diffuser perched on a shelf. It was soothing, an olfactory whisper telling me that here was a place of calm amidst the storm.
"Collette." Ingrid smiled. She stood framed by the doorway, her figure neither imposing nor dismissive, but rather exuding an aura of quiet strength. Her hair, a soft shade of iron gray, was cut in a practical bob that swung just above her shoulders as she moved forward to welcome me.
"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," I said, my words barely above a murmur. The taste of gratitude was a bitter, metallic dread, clinging to my tongue like fear.
"Let's sit down. Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?" Ingrid gestured towards two chairs facing each other across a small table. There was a maternal quality to her concern, something I found both unnerving and comforting.
"Water would be great, thanks." I eased into one of the chairs. Its leather clung to my skin as if trying to anchor me to the moment.
Ingrid poured water from a pitcher into a glass and handed it to me. Her hands were steady, nails trimmed short, devoid of any polish—a testament to her no-nonsense approach to life. I took a sip, the cool liquid doing little to quench the dryness of my throat or the thirst for answers gnawing at me.
"I know this is hard," Ingrid began, her tone earnest, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made it clear she saw past the facade I struggled to maintain. "I want to help you, but you need to understand that I'm constrained by what I can officially do."
I nodded, clutching the glass tighter as my heart thudded against my ribcage. "I get that, Ingrid. But I can't just sit back and do nothing. Andy... he deserves justice."
Ingrid's sigh was one of empathy, tinged with the residue of countless cases that must have slipped through her fingers like grains of sand. "I've been doing this job for over thirty years," she said, a wistful glint in her eye. "It doesn't get any easier seeing things left unresolved."
My fingers traced the leather grain of the armrests on my chair, the material cool and pliable. "But there has to be something more we can do," I said, tension knotting in my chest.
"Believe me, I've pushed as hard as I can push," she said, leaning forward, earnestness etched into the lines of her face. "My bosses want this shelved, even if it's unsolved. They don't see the threads that could lead us to answers—they see statistics, overworked staff, and a backlog of cases."
An acrid taste, like the dregs of forgotten coffee, settled on my tongue. Andy deserved more than to be dismissed as a statistic. His life, our shared history, couldn't just be some bureaucratic case file folded into a folder and archived away.
"Unsolved?" My voice cracked slightly, a mixture of anger and despair. "Andy was murdered. He’s not just some clerical error to be rectified."
Ingrid's eyes softened, empathy shining through. "I know. And if it were up to me alone..."
Her words hung in the air, unfinished, but the message was clear: her hands were bound by invisible cords stronger than any physical restraint. I reached into my purse, my hand brushing against the wad of cash I'd taken from Andy's apartment—dirty money that felt like betrayal—and wrapped my fingers around the business card.
"Maybe this will change their minds?" I offered the card to Ingrid like a talisman that might break the spell of bureaucratic indifference.
She took it carefully, turning it over in her hands. "Where did you find this?"
"Hidden in Andy's room," I replied, watching her closely. "It doesn't fit—it's too clean, too deliberate. Like it was meant to be found."
"Or a message meant to be sent," Ingrid murmured, her investigator's mind piecing together unseen puzzles. Her thumb ran across the embossed lettering, a tactile inquiry searching for truth in the grooves of ink and paper. The overhead fluorescent lights hummed a soft requiem for hope as she scrutinized the card.
“It’s a piece of the puzzle, isn't it? A clue that someone out there knows what happened to him."
"Potentially." Ingrid finally met my gaze again. "And clues are the breadcrumbs on the path to the gingerbread house."
"Or the witch's oven," I added darkly, allowing myself a fleeting smile at her analogy. But the smile faded quickly. "We have to be careful."
"Always," she agreed, placing the card carefully on her desk. "This could be significant. I can't promise miracles, but I will do what I can to look into it."
"Thank you, Ingrid," I said, relief mingling with a renewed sense of determination. I didn’t want her to get in trouble with her job, even though I needed access to more information than my skill set could provide. That small piece of card was a beacon, and as insignificant as it might seem, it was proof that the truth was out there—waiting to be uncovered. And I was ready to dig through every layer of deceit and danger to find it.
The FBI had written him off. I couldn’t just sit around and wait for someone else to take control.