16. Sniper #2
The entry opened on a bare foyer. Not literally bare—there was a coat hook, an empty umbrella stand, a shelf with a fake plant—but it was the most forgettable collection of objects I’d ever seen.
Nothing personal, nothing with a story. Every edge was too clean, too recently wiped.
The whole place smelled faintly of lemon, maybe Pledge, but not the real kind. The kind they use in motel rooms.
He gestured me in, then shut the door, the bolt sliding home with a sound that didn’t quite match the lock. “Sorry for the mess,” he said, and then grinned. “That’s what you’re supposed to say, right?”
I looked around. If there was a mess, it was the kind you’d need tweezers to find.
The floors were synthetic wood, perfectly even.
The only carpet was a short runner in the hall, vacuum lines still visible.
Every surface had that eggshell matte you see in model homes, a little bit textured but not enough to catch on skin.
I took a step forward and listened for anything alive—music, a TV, a pet—but the only sound was the faint hum of a fridge somewhere in the back.
He watched me scan, then led the way down a short hall, every step silent. “You said last night you were looking for your wife?” He didn’t say Jasmine’s name. He wanted me to do it.
“Jasmine Jackson,” I said. “She’s been gone almost two weeks now.”
He nodded, a gesture so slow and deliberate it made the silence heavier.
He led me into a kitchen so white it hurt. No magnets were on the fridge. No notes, no art, no pizza coupons. The counter was bare except for a fruit bowl. The only fruit was a single apple, red and glossy, that looked as if it had been waxed by someone who cared very much about apples.
He motioned to the table. “You want coffee? Water?”
I shook my head, then immediately changed my mind. “Coffee. Black, if you have it.”
He moved to the machine—one of those silver, all-in-one jobbers that can make any drink you can spell. He poured, then set the mug in front of me, handle aligned perfectly parallel to the table edge.
I took the first sip. The taste was so bland it almost surprised me. This was a man who believed in efficiency, not pleasure.
“You see her at the burger place the day she disappeared? Maybe she was meeting someone.”
He thought, really thought, like he needed to conjure the memory out of thin air. “Not since last week. Maybe the week before. Is she okay?”
I said nothing. My silence was an answer.
He looked up, and for the first time the warmth in his eyes cooled. “You think I had something to do with it.”
I met his gaze. “I think you might have seen something. Kingman’s not a big town.”
He nodded, this time faster. “That’s true. People talk. But I’m not a part of that scene. I serve burgers and keep my head down.”
A noise sounded in the hall—footsteps, light, like slippers on tile. Adam didn’t turn, just raised his voice a half step. “Emma? Could you come in a second?”
The woman who entered was not what I expected.
She was small, hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, eyes downcast but quick.
She carried herself like a nurse who’d worked the night shift for a decade and still got up to make breakfast for a family she didn’t like.
Her robe was pastel, and it looked new. She saw me and smiled, just enough to be polite.
Adam said, “This is Emma. My wife.”
I watched her reaction to the word wife—there was a twitch at the edge of her lip, but she let it slide.
Emma shook my hand. Her fingers were soft and a little cold, the kind of hand that rarely had to do the dirty work. “I’m so sorry about your wife,” she said, and she almost sounded like she meant it.
Adam gestured at the table, and Emma sat down across from me. “Have you seen her?” I asked.
Emma thought, then shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. But I can ask at the school. Sometimes the teachers see things. I do pickup for Samantha on Tuesdays, so…” She trailed off, eyes darting from Adam to me and back.
There was a rustle from the hallway. A kid, maybe seven, in pajamas, blinking at the light. She looked at me, then at her mother, then at Adam, and knew instantly to keep her mouth shut. Smart.
Adam put a hand on her head and ruffled her hair. “Go get dressed, kiddo. We’ll be out in a minute.”
The girl left, never once turning her back on any of us.
I finished the coffee. The mug was heavier than it looked. I set it down with a little extra force, to see if Adam would react.
He didn’t.
“Look,” I said. “I don’t want to waste your time or mine. If you see anything—anything at all—call me. Here’s the number again.” I slid a card across. He picked it up, looked at both sides, then set it by the fruit bowl.
Emma said, “I hope you find her.”
Adam said nothing.
I stood and turned to leave. He didn’t follow me to the door, but I could feel his eyes on my back all the way down the hall.
I paused in the foyer. The sun was up now, spilling through the transom.
The hallway was lined with four doors, all open—each one led to a room so bare it could have been a rental.
All the same eggshell paint. All the same nothing.
It bugged me. Four rooms, no life. No sound except for the hum of the fridge, and the memory of my own boots on the floor.
I opened the front door myself. The air outside was cold, but it woke me up. I walked back to the bike, every step echoing the click of my own jaw. I started the engine but let it idle, just to listen.
There was nothing.
I pulled out, gravel spitting under the tires, and let the anger simmer. This was the best lead I’d had in days, and it was airtight. Adam was either clean, or he was so good at hiding it that he’d make the cartel jealous.
When I was out of sight of the house, I pulled over and called Bruiser.
He picked up on the first ring. “Yeah?”
“Van’s legit,” I said. “Guy’s name is Adam. Wife’s Emma. Daughter’s Samantha. He played it perfect.”
“Anything off?”
“Everything’s off,” I said. “But nothing to call out.”
Bruiser was silent for a few seconds, then: “Want me to burn the place?”
I let the idea live for a moment, then shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me. “No. Not yet.”
“You think he’s the one?”
I thought of the kitchen, the table, the lineup of doors, the little girl with eyes like knives. I thought of Jasmine, her laugh, the way she always found the one crack in the wall nobody else could see.
I said, “I think he’s hiding something. But it’s not what we’re looking for.”
Bruiser grunted. “What’s next?”
“We keep watching. And we wait for him to make a mistake.”
I killed the call and stared at the landscape.
The mountains didn’t hide anything. But sometimes they waited for you to look a little harder.
I drove back to Kingman.
The cold stung my face, but it felt good.
It felt alive.