Crazy Eights (Stacked Deck #8) - Emilia Finn Page 0,35
she pays with cash, and the photo galleries are so old that they’re pre-dating Cam. I suspect Fiona wants to pretend she’s still sixteen and perfect, so those are the only pictures she has.”
“Sucks for her. Could you pretty please check out the other ten hits, take a peek at their websites, look for Cam, and then send me a list of the most likelies? I’ll make some rounds tomorrow and go search for her.”
“Mm. I’ll do it tonight and send you the email. What are you doing right now?”
I shrug, and hiss when the movement burns my shoulder. “Walking around,” I grit out. “Just getting a feel for the area. I’ll come back tomorrow and see if I can find her.”
“You’re not gonna sit on her doorstep and wait?”
I could, I think to myself. Possibly should. “Nah, I think I’ll head to the hotel and get some rest. I’ll come back tomorrow and see what I find.”
“What’s your end goal in all this, Kincaid?”
“Hm?”
“Your end goal,” she repeats. “She left you. She knows how to find you, so if she wanted you, she’d be here. That’s a pretty clear sign she wants out.”
“I don’t…” I exhale a noisy breath and bring my arm higher to rest against my chest to compensate for the pain. “I don’t know. I just… I need closure, Soph. It doesn’t feel done, and she said on the phone that she’s hurting too. That means she feels something. Even after all this time, she still feels something. So until we know what that thing is, I can’t walk away.” I shake my head. “I fuckin’ would if I could.”
I stop two blocks away from Cam’s home, stare up at a run-down, brick building, and see it. I see what Soph couldn’t.
“I found it.”
“Found what?”
“Track my location. Right where I am now, then tell me what’s in that building.” The line goes silent. Not even breathing. “Soph?”
“Yes, James?”
“Ugh.” I roll my eyes. “Pretty please?”
“Oh sure! You’re standing in front of Matt’s Meat. A butchery that started in…” She pauses for a moment. “Uh, nineteen-eighty-three. Matt was the original owner’s name, but it appears as though maybe that Matt named his son Matt, because the award for best beef newspaper article shows a Matt that isn’t old enough to be the original Matt.”
“You just said Matt a lot. Also, can you find Matt? Either one of them?”
“Hm… lemme check.”
She does… something. Whatever it is that she does. A keyboard clicks, she hums at the back of her throat, then she makes a ‘ha’ noise.
“Matt the first died two years ago. Cancer in the throat.”
“And the second Matt, the one in the article?”
“Looks like he lives in a city far, far away from Matt’s Meat. I guess he closed up shop.”
“He sure did.” I study the glass storefront windows. The mirrors inside. The handwritten sign taped to the door. “Matt’s Meat is now a dance studio. Maybe it’s not legit, and maybe they don’t file taxes. But I can tell you for a damn fact there’s an Ellie Solomon Dance Studio gym bag sitting on the floor by the mirrors.” I step forward and press my nose to the glass. “It’s an Ellie bag, Soph.”
“Chances of someone else having that bag and living on that street?”
“No fuckin’ chance,” I declare on a grunt. “Don’t worry about the email.” I step back from the glass, since the inside of the studio is locked up tight and the lights are out, and start making my way along the street. “I found her. Says in the window they’re open seven days a week between nine and three. And they take appointments via phone.”
“Phone number in the window?”
“Yeah, here.”
I rattle off the numbers, vow to log them into my phone as soon as we hang up, then I step away from the studio before I spook anyone.
“You got it?” I ask.
“I got it. This phone is registered to Victoria Quinnton. Her address isn’t the address you just visited, but it’s another run-down place, another apartment in another shitty neighborhood.”
“It’s been four years, maybe she moved more than once?”
“Hmm, maybe. Or maybe Victoria isn’t Cameron. I can’t find a driver’s license. Or a birth certificate.” She makes unhappy sounds in the back of her throat. “Victoria is a brand-new fake name.”
“It’s Cam.”
“It’s totally her,” she snickers. “You found her. It’s nice she created her own studio… That was a dream of hers, right?”
“Mm. She’s squatting in someone else’s building, using a fake name,