Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set

Chapter 20

“Don’t,” Paige said.

Grant touched his finger to the screen.

“We have to buy ourselves some time.”

Paige clenched her jaw.

“Fine. Put her on speaker.”

Grant swiped the screen, activated the speaker, and set the phone back on the island.

“Sophie,” he said.

“Jesus Christ, Grant. Wanger’s practically interviewing for your replacement. Where are you?”

“On my way home from the hospital.”

The words had left his mouth before he’d even given it a thought—a reflexive lie.

“Oh my God, what happened?”

The concern in her voice shot a hollowpoint of guilt through his chest. He felt it mushroom center mass. He’d never lied to Sophie before. Never had a reason to. Six months into their partnership, she’d had Grant down so cold she could have reconstructed him from junk parts. Now, after sharing a desk for two years, he could say as much. They operated on the same frequency, and that was the problem. Her bullshit meter was a finely calibrated tool. If his performance wasn’t Oscar material, she’d know it.

He glanced at Paige, her eyes gone wide, head slowly shaking like what-are-you-going-to-say-now?

“Let’s just say that the Spicy Italian is no longer my favorite sandwich.”

Something like a snort crackled over the speaker.

“Was that a laugh?” Grant said.

“No, I promise,” Sophie laughed.

“You are so cruel.”

“I just can’t believe you got food poisoning from Subway. That’s just ... wow. Do you need anything?”

“Rest.”

“You should’ve called me.”

“Kind of hard when they’re pumping your stomach.”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry.”

Paige raised an eyebrow.

Grant rolled his eyes.

“Can I bring you something?” Sophie asked. “Your favorite sub? I’m sorry, that was too soon.”

“No, I’m drained. Just going home to crash. Might take the next few days off. “

“That’s not a bad idea. You sound awful.”

“Would you tell Wanger for me?”

“Sure, but you’re going to hate your timing.”

Grant looked up at Paige.

“What’s going on?”

“We found Benjamin Seymour.”

Porcelain and coffee exploded on the floor beside Grant’s feet.

Paige’s eyes filled with terror, hands still clutching the shape of the mug that lay in pieces on the hardwood.

Grant mouthed to his sister, What?

She shook her head and pointed at the phone.

“What was that?” Sophie asked.

“Sorry. Hit a pothole.”

The pool of coffee was expanding toward Grant’s socks.

Paige collected herself, grabbed the dishcloth from the oven handle, and began blotting the liquid.

“Alive?” Grant asked.

“Yes.”

“Where’d you find him?”

“At the arboretum. I’m here now. He’d apparently been sitting on a bench for days before a groundskeeper found him and called it in. I tried talking to him but the guy’s a space cadet. Virtually catatonic. Could barely respond. Just sat there staring at the water.”

“So he was on something?”

“I don’t think so. It was more like he was sleepwalking.”

“So you’re bringing him in?”

Thinking, He’ll lead them straight to me and Paige.

“No. I’m going to follow him. Something’s up. He was holding a drawing he’d done on a receipt. A hyper-realistic portrait of an old man’s face. I’ve got it with me. This thing is amazing, Grant. Our boy’s an artist.”

“Seymour drew it?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Who’s the old man?”

“He didn’t know. Said he’d never met him.”

“That sounds like eight kinds of strange.”

Paige had finished soaking up the coffee, now picking up fragments of the mug.

“Well, don’t figure it all out before I get back,” Grant said.

“I don’t think there’s any danger of that. This is a weird one. Sure I can’t bring you something?”

“No, but you’re my first call if I change my mind.”

“All right, partner. Feel better. I’ll keep you looped in.”

Grant clicked off.

His heart pounding.

Paige had opened the cabinet under the sink and was dumping the broken cup into a trashcan. She closed the door and stood, looked back at Grant, her face as white as the porcelain shards.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Benjamin Seymour is one of mine. He came here three nights ago.”

“And it went down just like with the doctor last night?”

She nodded.

“Was a man named Barry Talbert also a client of yours?”

“Yeah, why?”

“He’s missing too. I’m sure you’re aware, but these are prominent, wealthy men in the business and legal community.”

“That’s who I service.”

“SPD is looking extra hard for them. The search for these men is what led me to your Facebook page in the first place. It’s going to be a matter of time before the entire investigative division—” Grant tapped the surface of the island “—knocks on the door.”

“So what do we do if it happens? If your buddies show up?”

“We can’t let that happen, okay? Think about what it would look like to a cop walking in here, finding Don upstairs. Now think about how it would sound if you and I tried to explain any of this. I wouldn’t buy it for a second.”

“You sound scared.”

“I am scared. Of whatever’s upstairs, and what could happen if the cavalry shows up. We’re in a bad spot here.”

Grant lifted his phone and stared at the screen.

The battery meter had dwindled into the yellow.

“So what do we do?” Paige asked.

“A Hail Mary.”

He scrolled his contacts down to stu.

Dialed.

A gruff-voiced man answered immediately, “G, what’s happening?”

“Stu, need a big favor.”

“Did I miss when you called for a little one?”

Grant hesitated, fighting through the pounding headache to pin down the best way to ask.

“I need everything you can dig up on an address.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“I need it in four hours.”

“Okay, that’s not even a rush job, Grant. That’s like—”

“I don’t care what it—”

“You know my rush jobs are double.”

“Aware.”

“We’re talking triple here. At least. I’m going to have to drop some high priority cases.”

“I don’t care what it costs.”

Through the speaker, Grant heard paper ripping, the murmur of a crowd, music, a distant, mechanical grinding that could only be espresso beans on their way to a small, white cup. An image materialized—Stu at his “office.” A coffeehouse in Capital Hill.

Stu said, “What’s the address?”

“Twenty-two Crockett Street.”

“Queen Anne?”

“Correct.”

“Give me your wish list.”

“Every owner going back twenty years. Every tenant going back twenty years. Background checks all around. And finally, assuming this property was sold in the last twenty years, I want a copy of the seller’s disclosure form.”

“That last one may be impossible, Grant.”

“Just try.”

“Those aren’t public records. I can’t just go down to the clerk and recorder’s office and pull that. Now I have contacts at two of the biggest title companies in town. Assuming there was a sale, and that one of those companies issued title insurance, it’s conceivable I could get my hands on the disclosure statement. Just don’t count on it. But look, regardless, there’s no way I’ll have all this information to you in four hours. There’s only three hours left in this work week. It’s an impossib—”

“Just get me what you can get me.” Grant pulled the phone back, glanced at the time: 1:55 p.m. “I need it by six tonight. I’ll be out of pocket until then. Call me at six exactly with whatever you’ve got.”

“Grant—”

“I understand. No warranty on you delivering all of this. But please just do what you can. I’m in a jam here.”

Stu sighed heavily into the receiver.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Six p.m. exactly.”

Grant axed the call.

Battery meter in the red.

He powered off his phone and looked at Paige. Already, she was tapping at her phone.

She brought it to her ear and faced the window over the double sink, her back to Grant.

It was the voice that took him aback, his sister transforming on a dime into this other person, her voice disintegrating.

From woman to girl.

Pitch rising.

Words drawing out.

It injured his soul.

“Hey sweetie, this a good time? ... Nothing much. Just thinking about you, wondering how your week’s been. Almost over, right? ... Look, I’ve got some time after six tonight if you wanted to swing by.”