Page 213 of Callan

“That’s it. The place was clean.”

“And you just found this on the table?”

“It was on the counter in a box. A jewelry box.”

I sag back, my arms crossed over my chest.

“I’m surprised they didn’t leave a handwritten note,” I say, filled with sarcasm. “So they knew we’d show up. Fuck them. This is a crazily expensive piece,” I add, realizing how ridiculous this is.

This guy or guys have fucked with me all this time.

They’ve harassed me. Wanted to kill Mackenzie. And then they dropped everything in a hurry and went poof.

I don’t know whether to throw a party and celebrate or hire some of the best investigators to find them before finishing them.

It’s bad.

It’s also over for now.

So they must’ve known I went to Costa Rica.

They must’ve also known I’ll figure out who they were.

They wanted me to find them.

That was their message.

I hate when people––foes and friends––leave things like this. Unfinished. I don’t trust these people.

I’ll call it a draw, then.

“Okay,” I say, visibly drained and irritated. “Thank you. You can go home.”

“Where are you headed?” he asks, his hand on the car door, pushing it open.

I crack a smile.

“Where do you think? I’m going to work.”

CALLAN

This never gets old.

Walking inside the sleek glass and concrete building, getting greeted by the doorman, having the security thrusts their chests out and nodding in silence.

I’ve kept this part of my life squeaky clean, and yet I still get those frightened stares as if I’m about to break someone’s neck with my bare hands.

And then there is the receptionist, and the secretary, and all the women who work for me.

They’re smooth and smiling, and some are young and bump into walls when I enter the top floor like now.

One of the ladies takes my coat as I stroll down the corridor without stopping.

The other one asks me how I want my coffee.

I give them brief instructions and enter my large office.

Not a cent has been spared to make this space as imposing and comfortable as it could be.

---