Chapter 12 #2
Bare feet guide me down the hall of the penthouse, where no decor lines the walls.
Stale white paint only surrounds me until arriving in my open living room that shares a space with the kitchen.
Floor-to-ceiling windows greet me, the city skyline and beautiful architecture satisfy my soul.
Sun shines into the space and as I look to the side, I find my laptop sitting exactly where I left it, on the white marble island.
Satisfied, my feet guide me once more. Fingers dance overtop the cool piece of equipment before opening it.
A couple clicks and the web browser opens and my fingers rapidly tap on the keys as I type in our address with her unit number.
My pinkie finger hits enter and the screen begins to load with its top results.
Before scanning through them, I step back, not forgetting the curious green light that seems to still be on my phone as I pull it out of my pocket to investigate.
Walking to the living room, I open a side drawer on the built in entertainment unit cabinets.
Using a paperclip, I push the end into the tiny hole located on the side of my phone.
A tiny unit pops out, revealing the almighty SIM card.
Taking the one from my phone out, I hold it between two fingers as I choose one of the many lighters from the drawer and flick the flame on.
The plastic warps as the hot flame flickers beneath it.
“Nice try, fuckers.”
Suppose I am a paranoid person. One can never be too safe in my line of work.
Before the plastic is able to drip onto the floor, the flame shuts off and I blow on the hot plastic SIM, cooling it off before gripping it in my fist where it balls.
Tossing the lighter back in the drawer, a loud thud follows as I take another SIM and slide it into my phone.
Closing the trapdoor, I wait and watch for the green light while the phone restarts.
It’s gone. Mission successful. But not forgotten. Just placed on the back burner, for now.
Pocketing my phone, I step back to the laptop, hunching forward as the tips of my fingers tap along the countertop while my eyes scan the screen. The first couple of results are the MLS listing from when it was on the market for just over ten million dollars.
I’m perplexed.
“How the fuck can she afford that place? Unless she rents?” I whisper to myself with a furrowed brow.
Scratching my head, I then use the arrow buttons to scroll farther down.
Unit 48A sold to a private buyer, above asking and paid for in an all cash offer.
Bingo.
Clicking on the link, the page loads. The article is a single paragraph on a broker’s website. My eyes scour each line rapidly for any information.
Buyer asks to remain anonymous. Prominent Agent Ryan Kennedy sold the unit this past spring for above asking price, all cash. The article was published in 2023.
Immediately, my fingers tingle with anticipation. Perhaps with a little pressure, Mr. Kennedy could shed some light on our anonymous buyer?
Vigorously typing into the search bar, I put his name in and hit enter.
Slamming my hand down in anger, the sting bounces through my palm and into the bones of my fingers.
Ryan Kennedy was found dead at age forty-three, just outside of Sleepy Hollow. Foul play is suspected. No suspects are currently in custody. Investigation is ongoing.
A growl erupts from deep within my chest. “Motherfucker!” It’s dated 2024. Scrolling down the page I look for an update, but nothing. They all read the same.
Not allowing the anger to take over. Quickly, I bounce back. “Come on, Holden, think!” My face blanks as I search my mind for another solution while still in disbelief. What a sloppy fucking disposal. The incompetence of the state police doesn’t shock me, though.
Going through the Rolodex in my brain, in alphabetical order, family name by family name, I attempt to place her face.
From the Astors to Livingstones. Montgomerys to Vanderbuilts, nothing.
I don’t recognize her from any of the old money circles.
Circles I was forced to engage with as a child.
Squeezing my eyes shut. None of that matters now.
Or has mattered since… I’d rather not get into that. Ever.
Then, as I attempt to suppress the climbing memories, it comes to me.
What if? No. Could it be that easy?
A picture.
If I can get a clear enough shot of her and put it into the search engine, I can see what comes up.
As the idea enters, so does dread.
But it might just work. Annoyingly, this means I will have to subject myself to being in her presence once more, when she isn’t paralyzed and tied to my chair with the rules clearly identified.
The headache is already preparing to come on because she is very fucking yappy.
To show self-restraint with her should earn me an award of some sort, surely.
By the time I get her into my dream situation, she will wish that I had actually emailed the building’s board, giving her the opportunity to escape me. Then where is the fun in that?
Blowing out a deep sigh, I reach to close the computer when I notice the green light is on next to the camera.
Having no emotional attachment to the computer, I grip both ends in my hands and bend it backward, breaking it in half. The crack of the plastic is sharp. Wires become exposed. The green light fades as the screen turns black. It’s dead. It’s safe to say I am very good at my job. Hobby? Occupation.
This occupation has also taught me that nothing happens by accident. None of this is a coincidence.
Who the fuck is she?