13. Hendricks
HENDRICKS
Iget out of the truck slowly, moving toward the house with the kind of quiet that comes from years of hunting people who don't want to be found.
The front door's locked. No signs of forced entry. I key in the code, push it open, and step inside.
The house is silent except for the hum of the refrigerator. But I feel it—someone’s in here.
I move through the entryway, clearing corners by instinct, and stop at the threshold of the kitchen.
Mandy Reed is sitting at my table.
She has a cup of coffee in front of her—my coffee, from my machine—and next to it there’s a half-eaten crumb donut on one of my plates.
I don’t have donuts in my house. I don’t eat sweets.
She's leaning back in the chair with her feet propped on the kitchen table like she owns the place. Her dark hair is pulled into a loose ponytail, but a loose thick strand brushes her cheek. Tactical pants and a fitted black shirt show every line of muscle. There’s no softness in her—not on her body and not in her eyes as she stares at me.
"Took you long enough to get here," she says, uninvited and unafraid, picking up the donut and taking a bite.