The Dead Girls Club - Damien Angelica Walters Page 0,61

double-check the drawers in her desk. All locked.

Then I eye the cabinets. We have the same model. I wonder …

I take hold of the top two drawers. Give a hard yank. Nothing. Another yank, even harder. Please don’t let Clark hear. Please don’t let this be a defect with my cabinet alone.

It isn’t.

I scan the files fast. Shit. Not in this one. I move to the next. Repeat the drawer trick and nothing happens. Shit, shit, shit. I yank hard as I can. The lock disengages and the drawers open with a metallic rattle. I freeze, prepared to see Clark bursting through the door, demanding to know what’s up, but it doesn’t happen.

I find what I need three drawers down. I flip open Lauren’s file and snap a picture of her address with my phone. Alexa was telling the truth; Lauren lives almost an hour away from me. We wouldn’t have run into each other. There’s also a note inside regarding Lauren’s employment at a hotel. Housekeeping. I recognize the name of the chain. Not a five-star, but respectable. I take a picture of that, too.

Without the key I can’t relock the cabinet, but it is what it is. Holding my shoes, I lock Alexa’s office, open the closet, return the keys. I have one shoe on and the other in the process when the outer door opens. Corinne. Back early.

Fuck.

Her brow furrows. “Dr. Cole?”

“Hi. I was nearby and thought I’d stop in to see Alexa.” I finish putting on my shoe. “Sorry, I caught a pebble on the way in.”

“She’s in Florida,” she says. “I’m quite sure I mentioned it when you called.”

“I know. You did and I forgot. I realized it once I got here.”

She doesn’t believe me. It’s there in her pursed lips. It’s in my rapid pulse.

“Maybe I should call Dr. Martin,” she says, moving too close.

What the hell is she going to do? Physically try to restrain me? I step back. “No worries at all,” I say. “I’ll come back when she’s back in town.”

And I’m out. Heart thudding, I take the stairs, my heels tattooing panic on the vinyl tile. I keep waiting for a door to slam open, for a security guard to tell me to stop. But even if they search me, they won’t find anything. They won’t think to look on my phone.

I drive away from the building like a bat out of hell. Triumph bubbles from my lips with a hysterical edge, but I don’t care. I got Lauren’s address. I really did.

“I got you,” I say.

I should go right now. No time like the present. No time to worry or chicken out. And I wasn’t at Alexa’s as long as I thought I’d be. I even moved two sessions to come today. With an airy grunt, I pull over on the side of the road and punch Lauren’s address into my GPS. If I drive fast and don’t spend hours there—and why would I?—I should be okay. Or I could wait until the end of the day. Then I wouldn’t have to worry.

I square my shoulders. No. No more waiting. Between the holes in the field and the dead squirrel, I have to do this. I have to know if it’s Lauren. I have to look her in the eye.

The ride doesn’t take as long as I thought, and by the time I get there, my palms are so sweaty the steering wheel is hard to hold. Gauging by the aged brick, the double-hung windows, the apartment complex is an older one. No balconies here. No separate entrances or loft ceilings. Probably built around the same time as my parents’ house; they share the same neat, no-frills appearance. I wonder if it makes Lauren feel more at home.

There’s nothing in my purse I can use to defend myself, if needed, and although the shovel’s still in my trunk, I can’t exactly walk to the door with it over my shoulder. I slip a key through my first two fingers, the way most women do when facing a dark parking lot. I wish I could say it makes me feel better.

What if Lauren hurts me? No one knows I’m here. She could open the door and shoot me straightaway. If the door’s made of wood, she wouldn’t even have to open it. But she’s a felon. She can’t own a gun. I wrinkle my nose. No, she can’t buy a gun legally. Doesn’t mean she can’t get one. But the