Read Online Reckoning: A Fallen Siren Novel by S.J. Harper - Free Book Online
Authors: S.J. Harper
Ads: Link
personal?”
“Yeah.”
“You want to talk about it?” Zack asks.
“No.”
He frowns. “I am capable of being Sensitive Listening Guy, you know. I mean, I’m more comfortable being Decisive Action Guy. But for you, Monroe . . .”
I turn away and push my door open. “I’ll let you know.”
Zack follows me up the hedge-bordered path from the road into the apartment complex. Like most of the lower-income apartment buildings in the county, this one is two stories, stucco and wood, with individual air-conditioning units and outside storage closets. It’s been well maintained, no trash or broken glass littering the bushes or walkways. The lawn area is healthy and neatly trimmed. It’s quite a contrast to Julie Simmons’ home even though the two families are in the same income bracket. Maybe the Simmonses just wanted to live close to Julie’s school and they took what they could afford. Rents closer to the beach are always higher.
We stop in front of a cluster of mailboxes marked with numbers only, no tenant names. Zack pulls a copy of the police report from his breast pocket and quickly scans it. “Apartment 1G,” he announces.
He and I find the unit in the back corner of the ground floor. We both have our badges out of our pockets when he rings the doorbell.
At first we get no answer. Then Zack rings again and knocks on the doorjamb.
Just when we think we’ve struck out, the door swings open.
“Yes?”
The woman is short with wide shoulders and hips, long dark hair piled on top of her head in a mass of unruly curls. She’s wearing a bright red shift that ends right above her knees and matching flip-flops with rhinestones along the straps. The sparkly theme is repeated on the bridge and earpieces of oversized, black-framed glasses that make her look bug-eyed. She’s holding a can of Pledge in one hand and a dust rag in the other.
“Agent Armstrong?” she asks, looking up at Zack. Then her gaze shifts to me.
I step forward. “Mrs. Clemons, I’m Agent Monroe.”
“As I explained on the phone, we’re here because we’ve been assigned to your daughter’s case. We want to help find Hannah,” Zack interjects.
She’s already motioning for us to come inside. “I’ve been a bundle of nerves. Can’t sleep. Can’t eat.” She places the furniture polish and the dust rag on a small table next to the door and removes her glasses. If the smell of the tiny apartment is any indication, Mrs. Clemons has been cleaning nonstop since Hannah turned up missing.
“Shall we sit?” I ask.
She looks toward the sofa in the middle of the room. “Of course. I’m sorry.”
Zack and I follow her, taking seats at opposite ends of the small couch while she sits facing us across a coffee table that I could use for a mirror.
Zack sniffs the air. “Apple pie?”
Mrs. Clemons looks surprised. “I just put it into the oven. You can smell it already?”
Zack looks abashed for a moment. He’s forgotten his Were sense of smell detects more than the lemon of Pledge and chlorine of bleach.
I jump to his rescue. “I could smell those fresh-cut apples and cinnamon as soon as you opened the door. Besides, apple pie is his hands-down favorite.”
She reaches into the pocket of her dress and pulls out a crumpled tissue. “I just put it in the oven a few minutes ago,” Mrs. Clemons repeats. “It’s Hannah’s favorite, too. Please, Agent Armstrong, you have to find my baby.”
While Zack promises we’ll do our best and buoys hope by talking about the Bureau’s clearance rate, I take a moment to look around the place Hannah calls home. Pictures of her crowd the polished surfaces of scattered end tables, allowing us to see the progression from infant to young lady at a glance. On the mantelpiece over a faux fireplace is a larger version of the school picture we have in our folder. Alongside that one is a portrait of Hannah in a cheerleading outfit in front of her school.
She looks happy, well adjusted.
Zack
“Yeah.”
“You want to talk about it?” Zack asks.
“No.”
He frowns. “I am capable of being Sensitive Listening Guy, you know. I mean, I’m more comfortable being Decisive Action Guy. But for you, Monroe . . .”
I turn away and push my door open. “I’ll let you know.”
Zack follows me up the hedge-bordered path from the road into the apartment complex. Like most of the lower-income apartment buildings in the county, this one is two stories, stucco and wood, with individual air-conditioning units and outside storage closets. It’s been well maintained, no trash or broken glass littering the bushes or walkways. The lawn area is healthy and neatly trimmed. It’s quite a contrast to Julie Simmons’ home even though the two families are in the same income bracket. Maybe the Simmonses just wanted to live close to Julie’s school and they took what they could afford. Rents closer to the beach are always higher.
We stop in front of a cluster of mailboxes marked with numbers only, no tenant names. Zack pulls a copy of the police report from his breast pocket and quickly scans it. “Apartment 1G,” he announces.
He and I find the unit in the back corner of the ground floor. We both have our badges out of our pockets when he rings the doorbell.
At first we get no answer. Then Zack rings again and knocks on the doorjamb.
Just when we think we’ve struck out, the door swings open.
“Yes?”
The woman is short with wide shoulders and hips, long dark hair piled on top of her head in a mass of unruly curls. She’s wearing a bright red shift that ends right above her knees and matching flip-flops with rhinestones along the straps. The sparkly theme is repeated on the bridge and earpieces of oversized, black-framed glasses that make her look bug-eyed. She’s holding a can of Pledge in one hand and a dust rag in the other.
“Agent Armstrong?” she asks, looking up at Zack. Then her gaze shifts to me.
I step forward. “Mrs. Clemons, I’m Agent Monroe.”
“As I explained on the phone, we’re here because we’ve been assigned to your daughter’s case. We want to help find Hannah,” Zack interjects.
She’s already motioning for us to come inside. “I’ve been a bundle of nerves. Can’t sleep. Can’t eat.” She places the furniture polish and the dust rag on a small table next to the door and removes her glasses. If the smell of the tiny apartment is any indication, Mrs. Clemons has been cleaning nonstop since Hannah turned up missing.
“Shall we sit?” I ask.
She looks toward the sofa in the middle of the room. “Of course. I’m sorry.”
Zack and I follow her, taking seats at opposite ends of the small couch while she sits facing us across a coffee table that I could use for a mirror.
Zack sniffs the air. “Apple pie?”
Mrs. Clemons looks surprised. “I just put it into the oven. You can smell it already?”
Zack looks abashed for a moment. He’s forgotten his Were sense of smell detects more than the lemon of Pledge and chlorine of bleach.
I jump to his rescue. “I could smell those fresh-cut apples and cinnamon as soon as you opened the door. Besides, apple pie is his hands-down favorite.”
She reaches into the pocket of her dress and pulls out a crumpled tissue. “I just put it in the oven a few minutes ago,” Mrs. Clemons repeats. “It’s Hannah’s favorite, too. Please, Agent Armstrong, you have to find my baby.”
While Zack promises we’ll do our best and buoys hope by talking about the Bureau’s clearance rate, I take a moment to look around the place Hannah calls home. Pictures of her crowd the polished surfaces of scattered end tables, allowing us to see the progression from infant to young lady at a glance. On the mantelpiece over a faux fireplace is a larger version of the school picture we have in our folder. Alongside that one is a portrait of Hannah in a cheerleading outfit in front of her school.
She looks happy, well adjusted.
Zack
Similar Books
