Page 36 of Wicked S.O.B.

I smile at the young, smartly dressed man. “Thanks, Jackson. Can I help you?”

He holds out a small package wrapped in brown paper. “This came for you a little while ago.”

The back of my neck tingles, and my senses ramp up to high alert again as I take the lightweight package. My name and address are scrawled in black ink, but there’s no postage markings or a return address. “Do you know who delivered it?”

Jackson shakes his head and starts to frown. “It was a bike messenger, I believe. Is something wrong, Miss Gilbert?”

“No, it’s fine. Thank you.”

He nods and heads back to his office.

I start to move toward the elevator but change my mind at the last moment. Call me paranoid if you will, but I don’t want to be alone when I open whatever is in the package. The vast foyer holds several groupings of seats positioned to enjoy the stunning atrium and works of art dotted all over the large space. I head for the nearest unoccupied seat and rip away the brown paper covering the package.

I stare at the item inside, my heart thudding. For a moment my senses suspend in a vacuum, unsure whether to soar into panic or drop into calm.

The laptop cover is the one I lost two weeks ago. At the time I thought I’d either left it behind after a class or dropped it in the coffee shop I sometimes use near the academy. I mourned its loss but didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about it. It’s nowhere as expensive as the one Quinn replaced it with, and although a few of my classmates know who I’m dating, I don’t think any of them would go through the trouble of returning it to my home address, especially when they could’ve easily handed it to me in class.

My instinct lurches toward panic as I turn the cheap leather over and see the single word on the Post-it note attached to it.

Lost.

The word is innocuous enough, written in the same ink as my name and address. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to return a thirty-dollar faux leather case to me. I look around the foyer, searching for fuck knows what. Unsure of what to do. The uncertainty pisses me off, but there’s nowhere to point my anger. After a minute, I grab my phone and send Detective Schultz a quick text. She calls me back as I’m heading to the elevator.

“You’re sure the case is yours?” she snaps the moment I answer.

“Yes.”

“I’m in Yonkers on a case right now, but I’ll swing by on the way back. Will you be home?”

My hesitation is enough to draw a hiss of irritation. “For God’s sake, Elyse—”

“I’m telling him tonight,” I blurt. “We have a thing…tonight. I’m telling him after.”

“Fine. But I still need that case. Might be a long shot but we could luck out on a fingerprint. Try not to handle the case too much.”

“Okay.”

“So where do you wanna meet?”

“There’s a coffee shop across the street.”

“Name?”

“Mickey’s.”

“See you there at four.” She hangs up as abruptly as she answered.

My bubble of happiness gone, I spend the rest of the afternoon swinging between convincing myself this is nothing and skirting the edges of panic. It’s almost a relief when four o’clock rolls around.

My dark orange dress with an asymmetric hem closely follows the shape of my body and shows off more than a little leg, and the matching platform shoes offer much-needed confidence. I catch my hair in a loose knot on top of my head, allowing a few strands to frame my face, and finish off with complementing makeup and lipstick. A lightweight coat and scarf finishes off the outfit.

Ellen Schultz is waiting for me at a back table when I enter Mickey’s. Her gaze flicks to the street and the limo idling on the curb before she nods at the plastic bag in my hand. “That it?”

I nod and hand it over. She tugs a black forensic glove from her back pocket, slips it on her right hand, and reaches into the bag. She examines the case and then stares at the Post-it note.

“Fuck.” Her voice is disturbingly resigned.

Ice grips my nape. “What?”

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