Chapter 4

• At noon, I clocked out and went back to my rental.
• My daughter, Ella, was at a rehabilitation center. She came home once a week.
• The place was empty. Just her award certificates and photos taped on the wall.
• I cracked open a can of soup and ate, then sat at the table and set down the photo I’d pulled from Ethan Reed’s pocket.
• Ella, three years ago.
• Back then she hadn’t been diagnosed. Her hair was still black. Her cheeks were still round. She loved snow. That winter a blizzard hit, and I took her to the park. We built a crooked snowman. She stuck a carrot in for the nose, then wrapped her arms around its neck and told me to take the picture.
• That was her last healthy winter.
• Who took this picture?
• Who shoved it into a dead man’s pocket?
• Who knew about me and Ella—and used it to threaten me?
• I flipped the photo over. The line of text was in ballpoint pen, neat handwriting. Not something scrawled in a panic.
• I leaned in. Beneath the words was a faint impression, like someone had written something before and then erased it.
• I grabbed a pencil and lightly shaded over the back.
• The indent came up—a phone number.
• I hesitated five minutes, then dialed.
• Six rings. It connected. Dead quiet on the other end.
• “Who are you?” I asked.
• Nothing. Suffocating silence.
• I tried again. “Did you plant the photo?”
• Still nothing.
• I couldn’t hold it in. I lowered my voice, words coming fast. “What do you want?”
• Finally, a voice. Soft, distorted, impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman.
• “Jake Hanson, the corpse you burned—there was one more thing in his pocket. You didn’t take it.”
• I froze.
• “What thing?”
• “A key,” the voice said. “Silver. Small. When you went through his inside pocket, you only grabbed the photo. You missed the key.”
• I replayed it in my head. My fingers had brushed something metal, yeah—but I figured it was a lighter or whatever. I didn’t think twice.
• “That key opens a safe,” the voice went on. “The safe is in the Textile Factory Apartments on the West Side. Unit four-zero-two. Inside, there’s something that’ll tell you why Ethan Reed had to die.”
• “Who the hell are you?”
• “Someone who doesn’t want you getting silenced.” The line clicked off.
• I held the phone to my ear, listening to the flat beep-beep.
• Textile Factory Apartments. 402.
• That whole area got torn down three years ago. Should be rubble now.
• Or maybe not.
• I pulled up the map. The old complex was gone, but a new development stood there with the same name: Textile Factory Apartments.
• Building 4, Unit 402.
• That afternoon I took half the day off, got in the car, and drove to the place.
• The complex was new, barely anyone living there. Security was lazy. I slipped into Building 4 and rode the elevator to the fourth floor.
• 402 had a heavy security door, tiny keyhole.
• I fished a key out of my pocket—not Ethan Reed’s. I never found his.
• It was my own house key. I figured I’d see if I could fiddle the lock.
• No chance.
• Then a hoarse voice sounded behind me.
• “Who are you?”
• My heart skipped a beat.