The Enraged

CHAPTER 4

Misty Blake stared out the window of her apartment. She’d been there since a little before five a.m., when she’d given up trying to sleep. In front of her sat yet another untouched cup of coffee, cold and forgotten. She was dressed in the same T-shirt and gym shorts she’d gone to bed in, the same clothes she’d worn the day before. The same clothes she’d worn since the day Quinn had called her and told her Peter was dead.

Misty had been Peter’s last assistant at the Office, working with him right up to the end of the organization as they’d closed everything down and were then transferred in different directions. Their relationship had continued even after she started her mindless job at the Labor Board. To Misty he was still her boss, and anytime he needed help, she was there.

When she’d gone to Peter’s house at Quinn’s request almost two weeks earlier and discovered the signs of Peter’s kidnapping, she had been terrified she might never see him again. But Quinn was one of the few other people in the world Peter fully trusted, and Quinn had said he would do all he could to bring Peter back. She had taken hope in that.

But days had passed without any news, and the terror had returned, eating her up and turning her into a nervous wreck. When she finally heard Quinn’s voice, for a second — just a second — she allowed herself to hope again.

“Misty, I’m sorry. He…he…”

Silence.

“He’s dead,” she said.

“Yes.”

In that instant, her terror was replaced by a deep dark hole that seemed to go on forever. She remembered asking a few questions, remembered hearing answers, too, but what she didn’t remember were the words. All that stuck in her head was that Peter was gone.

The fact that there was no funeral made it worse. There was no closure to her grief, no outlet to pay tribute to the man who had not only been her boss, but often a second father. So she’d taken bereavement leave from her work for an unspecified relative’s death, locked herself in her apartment, and mourned in solitude.

Now, when the doorbell rang, she didn’t move.

It rang again, this time followed by a knock.

She looked up at the kitchen clock—9:18 a.m. Go away, she thought.

There was no knock after the third ring, only the quick sound of whoever it was rubbing something against wood below her peephole.

She almost let it go, but pulling off what had been left there — an advertisement, most likely — and dumping it in the trash would at least get her out of the chair.

She forced herself up, and shuffled through her apartment to the door. When she opened it, she found no one there. Not a surprise. She’d assumed the person had moved on. Was glad, in fact. The surprise came when she looked at what had been left behind. It wasn’t an advertisement at all, but a notification from the post office.

She pulled it off and took a closer look. It was for a certified letter that she had to sign for. She stuck her head into the corridor and looked both ways. The postal worker who’d left the note was nowhere in sight.

Couldn’t be far, though. If she could catch him, it would save her a trip to the post office, something she hated doing even when she wasn’t mourning a friend’s death.

She slipped on her gym shoes, grabbed her keys off the little table by the door, and went in search of her letter. She found the postman on the first floor, filling the mailboxes.

“You left this on my door.” She held out the notification.

The postman kept stuffing the boxes. “Let me finish this first, then I can help you.”

She watched him move slowly from box to box — two letters here, four there, mailers from the neighborhood grocery store, catalogs — and had to stifle the urge to take his bag from him. When he finally finished, he shut the main door, locked it in place, and turned to her.

“Let me see that, please.”

She handed him the notice.

He read it, and said, “Right. This is you? Misty Blake?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

He handed it back. “You’re going to have to sign it.”

“Oh, um, I don’t have a pen.”

He rolled his eyes and pulled a pen out of his pocket. “Don’t you walk off with that when you’re done.”

“I won’t.”

She signed the slip, and held it and the pen out to the postman.

“Just hold on to it for a second.” He pulled an envelope out of his bag. “Gotta sign this, too.”

There was a green card attached to the front. As she signed it, she glanced at the return address. It was typed — address only, no sender’s name.

Raleigh, North Carolina. She’d never been there, and, as far as she could remember, knew no one who lived there.

The postman took the card, snagged his pen back, and said, “All yours.”

“Thank you.”

As she neared her apartment, the weight of Peter’s death once more descended on her. She let herself in, and retuned to the kitchen table where she’d spent the morning. Her letter opener was all the way back on her desk in the bedroom, so she rustled up a kitchen knife and cut open the top of the envelope.

She wasn’t sure what she expected to find, but a second envelope was not it. She pulled the enclosed envelope out and began turning it around so she could look at the front. But when she caught sight of the handwriting scrawled in the center, she dropped the letter on the table.

The envelope spun as it fell, so that the front, while remaining visible, was upside down. Still, there was no mistaking what she’d seen. In blue ink was written:

Misty

She knew the handwriting as well as her own.

Peter’s handwriting.

She had no idea how long she stared at it. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours. At some point she sat down, and used the tips of her fingers to turn the envelope so that it was facing the right way.

What could be inside? Why did it come now? How did it come now?

She double-checked the exterior envelope. No way Peter could have sent it. It was postmarked after he died.

A part of her didn’t want to open it, telling her by keeping it closed, in some small way, Peter was still alive. And while she knew she couldn’t listen to that voice, she was having a hard time convincing herself to pick up the knife and slice open the flap.

Peter sent this. Peter wanted you to open it. If you don’t open it, you’re dishonoring him.

That thought finally did it. Careful, so that she didn’t damage anything inside, she slit the top open. There was no additional envelope this time, just a white, three-by-five-inch index card. She pulled it out and set it gently on the table.

There were three lines of text written on it. The first was the oddest:

Her mind was too muddy at the moment to even guess what it could mean.

The second and third lines, though, she could actually understand:

She stared at the words, reading the message over and over.

I need your help.

She guessed the fourteen characters in the first line had something to do with the assignment, but she didn’t know what that connection might be.

Quinn must know what they mean.

She reached for her phone.