The Woman in 3B - Eliza Lentzski Page 0,35
cursing.”
“You’re like a poet,” I remarked, rolling my eyes. “Would he be able to get me a passenger’s home address?”
Kent’s features perked up with interest. I knew this was new territory for him; I rarely did or said anything of significance, according to him.
“Why, pray tell, do you need me to break company rules?” he asked.
“A passenger left their tablet on the plane. I want to return it.”
“You know we have a Lost & Found for that,” he pointed out.
“I know. But I don’t want her to freak out when she can’t find it. She might not even realize she left it on the flight.”
Kent’s manscaped eyebrows rose. “She, eh? Does someone have a little crush?”
“No,” I immediately rejected. “I just want the address so I can mail it back.”
“Such a little do-gooder,” Kent sighed, already sounding exhausted with me. “You’re in luck. I’ve been meaning to reconnect with Steve. You’ve given me a legitimate reason to call him beyond missing the things he can do with his tongue.”
I appreciated Kent’s willingness to help me, but I couldn’t keep my remarks to myself. “You should really be writing this down. Seriously, Kent. You’re like a Poet Laureate.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
It had taken some convincing to procure Anissa’s home address. Kent’s ‘friend,’ wasn’t so enthused to be breaking company policy for me, but eventually he’d done what Kent had asked. I already owed Kent for letting me work First Class on the flights we staffed together, and now I would have to find a way to pay him back for this favor. My debt to him was piling up like the interest on my student loans. I’d had to wait until my next day off, a Saturday, to drive out to the suburban address Kent’s friend had found for one Anissa Khoury.
“This can’t be right.”
I slowed my car to a slow crawl, mindful of the children who played in the streets, zig-zagging in and out of highly manicured lawns. Automatic sprinkler systems watered the lush green grass and dribbled onto the concrete sidewalk and blacktop streets.
Dearborn, Michigan was an affluent Detroit neighborhood, not too far—only a dozen miles—from the airport. Nationally it was known for its disproportionately high Arab American population, along with being automobile giant Henry Ford’s hometown. The city remained the Ford Motor Company’s World headquarters.
Bloated mansions, nearly indistinguishable from each other, towered above the landscape on either side of the street. It was a wealthy neighborhood, but not quite at a price point that afforded privacy. The rows and rows of houses looked into neighbors’ windows and backyards.
Why would she live here? I’d assumed her to be single and living in an apartment complex, like myself.
I had realized, too late, that the address Kent’s friend had looked up might not even be Anissa’s home address. Because she traveled for work, all of her billing information might have been the listing for the consulting company for which she worked.
I double-checked the address before parking and getting out of my car. My reliable and economical sedan was typically the nicest and newest car in the airport employee parking lot, but it looked like a jalopy parked on the curb of the affluent subdivision amongst all the Mercedes, BMWs, and Jaguars.
The air was filled with the sounds of leaf blowers and lawn mowers, not the constant air traffic that surrounded my apartment building. My apartment’s location made for an easy commute to work, but I rarely spent time on my balcony because of the constant buzz of planes taking off and landing.
A newly poured cement slab directed me up to the front door. The blinds and curtains in all of the windows of the two-story home were drawn, denying me a glimpse of the house’s interior. I had gone to the address Kent had procured for me, but each step toward the oversized home heightened my doubts that this was where Anissa actually lived.
I reached the front porch—a narrow composite wood landing—and nearly lost my nerve. A mailbox slot was built into the front door. The opening was large enough that I could have shoved the tablet through the door and run away, but I still didn’t know if Anissa actually lived here.
My throat progressively tightened the longer I stood on the front stoop. This was such a dumb idea. Before I could psyche myself out, I jabbed my index finger against the glowing doorbell. Its loud, rich tone echoed through the house.
I heard a muffled voice on the other side of the