life went to pieces. Rolling up the sweater, I stretch out on the backseat, place the makeshift pillow under my head, and close my eyes.
My last thought before sleep drags me under is the hope that I stay alive long enough to hear back about the job.
2
Nikolai
A knock on the door distracts me from the email I’m reading, and I look up from my laptop as Alina opens the door and gracefully steps into my office.
“We got a promising application tonight,” she says, approaching my desk. “Here, take a look.” She hands me a thick folder.
I open it. A driver’s license photo of a striking young woman stares at me from the front page. Her brown eyes are so big they dominate her small, diamond-shaped face, and even on the grainy printout, her bronzed skin seems to glow, as if lit from within by an invisible candle. But it’s her mouth that catches my attention. Small yet perfectly plump, it’s a mix between a doll’s Cupid-bow pout and something one might find on a porn star.
She’s not smiling in this picture; her expression is solemn, her hair pulled back in either a tight ponytail or a bun. The next page, however, has a picture of her laughing, her head thrown back and her face framed by golden-brown waves that disappear below her slender shoulders. She’s beautiful in this photo, and so radiant that I feel something inside me go dangerously still and quiet even as my pulse quickens with a primal male response.
Suppressing the bizarre reaction, I flip the page back and read the info on the driver’s license.
Chloe Emmons is twenty-three years old, five-foot-four, and resides in Boston, Massachusetts—which means she’s a long way from home.
“How did she hear about this position?” I ask, glancing up at Alina. “I thought we only placed the ad in the local papers.”
She moves the printouts with the photos aside and taps a glossy red nail on the page underneath. “Read the cover letter.”
I turn my attention to the page. It appears Chloe Emmons is on a post-graduation road trip and just happened to be passing through Elkwood Creek when she saw our ad and decided to apply for the position. The cover letter is well written and neatly formatted, as is the resume that follows. I can see why Alina thought it promising. Though the girl has just received her Bachelor’s in Education Studies from Middlebury College, she’s had more teaching internships and babysitting jobs than the previous three candidates combined.
Konstantin’s report on her is next. As usual, he’s had his team do a deep dive on her social media, criminal and DMV records, financial statements, school transcripts, medical records, and everything else about her life that had been computerized at any point. It’s a longer read, so I look up at Alina. “Any red flags?”
She hesitates. “Maybe. Her mother passed away a month ago—apparent suicide. Since then, Chloe has basically been off the grid: no social media posts, no credit card transactions, no calls on her cell.”
“So she’s either having trouble coping, or something else is going on.”
Alina nods. “My bet is on the first; her mother was the only family she had.”
I shut the folder and push it away. “That doesn’t explain the lack of credit card transactions. Something’s off here. But even if it’s what you think, an emotionally disturbed woman is the last thing we need.”
A humorless smile touches Alina’s jade-green eyes. “Are you sure about that, Kolya? Because I feel like she might fit right in.”
And before I can reply, my sister turns around and walks out.
I don’t know what makes me pick up the folder again an hour later—morbid curiosity, most likely. Flipping through the thick stack of papers, I find the police report on the mother’s suicide. Apparently, Marianna Emmons, waitress, age forty, was found on her kitchen floor, her wrists slit. It was a neighbor who called it in; the daughter, Chloe, was nowhere to be found—and she never showed up to identify or bury the body.
Interesting. Could pretty little Chloe have offed her mom? Is that why she’s on her off-the-grid “road trip?”
According to the police report, there was no suspicion of foul play. Marianna had a history of depression, and she’d tried to commit suicide once before, when she was sixteen. But I know how easy it is to stage a murder scene if you know what you’re doing.
All it takes is a little foresight and skill.
It’s a leap, of course, but