She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,208

Road was the edge of the earth. We turned from Cultus Bay onto Stills in silence. The road was narrow, barely wide enough for two cars to pass, lacking a center dividing line. Mailboxes and driveways lined the left side with not a single house in sight. The driveways weaved back into thick groves of Douglas fir, red alder, big-leaf maples, tall cedars, and hemlock. A wild place, untouched by the destructive hand of man.

“There,” Stella said softly, pointing at a large red mailbox with 6600 painted on the side in careful black script. Nothing else, no mention of the bed-and-breakfast. Nothing to indicate a business existed here at all.

A canopy of large, bowing branches bent over the gravel driveway.

“Go, Jack. I can’t stand it.” She was leaning forward again.

I realized I was, too. My palms were clammy with sweat.

I turned onto the narrow driveway and followed it through the trees.

4

The vehicle Fogel had followed into the Charter parking lot turned out to be a Ford F-250 pickup truck—white, like all the others. As she got out of her own car, she saw two men climb out of the large truck and disappear inside the building. Both wore long, white trench coats. Neither acknowledged her. Both moved with quick purpose.

Fogel pressed the lock button on her key fob—the two chirps sounding especially loud, as all sounds do at such early hours—then followed after the two men, across the parking lot and through two thick glass doors.

A whoosh of cold air met her as the doors swung shut automatically at her back, the click of her shoes echoing off the highly polished white marble floors.

Fogel stared up at the soaring ceiling, rising the full height of the building.

The ceiling was white.

The walls were white.

White canvases in white frames lined the walls, and somehow Fogel was certain if she inspected one closely, she would find those canvases weren’t blank, but painted white with careful strokes. Soft piano music came forth from hidden speakers. She recognized it as “Der Hölle Rache” from Mozart’s The Magic Flute. One of her mother’s favorites.

“May I help you?”

This came from a reception desk at the back of the lobby, behind a waiting area made up of two white leather couches, four matching white leather chairs, and assorted white tables on a white rug.

The lobby should have felt incredibly bright but the lights were just low enough to compensate.

Fogel approached the desk and took out her ID. “I’m Detective Fogel, with the Pittsburgh Police Department. I’d like to speak to whoever is in charge.”

The receptionist, a woman in her mid-twenties with long blonde hair and green eyes, smiled up at Fogel. She wore a white blazer over a white blouse, and although Fogel couldn’t see under the desk, she was certain the woman had on a matching skirt and shoes as well. “Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m with Homicide. I don’t have an appointment, but I need to speak to someone right away.”

The woman raised her eyebrows. “Homicide? Has there been a murder?”

“I’m not at liberty to provide details. This is an active investigation.”

“I understand.” She smiled and picked up her phone, dialing a number with slender fingers tipped in white nail polish. Speaking softly into the receiver, she listened for a moment, then hung up. “Please take a seat, Detective Fogel. Someone will be with you shortly. Help yourself to coffee or pastries. The baklava is simply delightful.”

“Thank you.”

Fogel walked over to the waiting area and dropped down into the large, white couch.

Coffee service, donuts, and assorted pastries filled the table at the center of the furniture. There was also a generous supply of flavored creamers, sugars, and artificial sweeteners. She poured herself a cup of coffee, black, then frowned when she realized it was ice cold. The pastries (including the famous baklava) looked like they had been out there a while, too. Mold crept up over the edges of the bagels.

5

There are times in your life when you think you know what comes next. Instances of predicability, sameness. Times when your next step is as known to you as the last, and you take those steps with confidence, knowing nothing horrific waits for you in the shadows ahead. You venture forth as if you read the last page of a book and can go back and read the rest from the beginning, knowing without a doubt where the story would go, while still taking comfort in the journey.

I spent the preceding eighteen years of my life