Page 14 of At Your Mercy
“Oh, really? I hadn’t fucking noticed,” I said sarcastically, my eyes narrowed at her.
The atmosphere thinned out again, though no one looked much reassured.
I reached for the coffee mug on my desk, stale and bitter as the brew inside, and took a swallow. They could doubt all they wanted. At the end of the day, Hayes and Hudson weren’t going anywhere.
I set the mug down, already regretting the sip. My stomach hated the cheap stuff these people brewed, but it was better than nothing.
Ich cleared his throat again, hovering like a man about to stick his hand in a bear trap. “There’s… one other thing, boss.”
I tilted my head. “Spit it out.”
He adjusted his wide-framed glasses, dark brown eyes flicking anywhere but mine. “The…guest… from last night…”
I asked tightly, “What about him?”
“I dug around like you asked.” Ichabod pulled a thin folder from his bag and set it on my desk, but didn’t immediately let go of it. “There’s almost nothing. Age, twenty-nine. No job history on paper. No higher education—looks like he was homeschooled, at least on the records I could find. Address on file is the apartment he’s in now, but…” His fingers finally slid off the folder. “Ownership’s under an Elias Craig. Maybe a father since your guy’s name is Ronan Craig, but…”
I flipped it open, scanning the meager notes.
Ich shifted on his feet. His discomfort set my teeth on edge.
“Go on.”
“There’s… an old report, too. I wasn’t sure if I should bring it up, but…” He rubbed at the back of his neck, eyes darting to the side. “It’s from about twenty years ago. Small-town police blotter, then it was all over the news.”
I looked up, waiting impatiently.
“They found a family murdered in their home. Two young parents, a seven-year-old boy, and a four-year-old girl—the house was a blood bath… But, there ended up being a third child that was missing from the scene. He would’ve been nine.” He hesitated. “The reports all highlight him having a distinctive appearance. Albinism.”
The room seemed to tilt a fraction. I shut the folder, fingers pressing hard into the cardboard. “And?”
“He was never found.” Ichabod’s voice had gone thin, strained. “Technically, he’s still listed as missing. The name’s not the same, but the age and his appearance match up. I think he’s the kid.”
I leaned back, staring past him at the wall of monitors flickering with surveillance feeds. White noise filled the room, but I wasn’t hearing it.
So that’s what you are, I thought.
“Does anyone else know about this?” I asked.
“No,” Ichabod said quickly, his shoulders hunching. “Only me.”
“Keep it that way.” My voice was flat, final.
He gave a jerky nod and retreated, leaving the folder in front of me like it might bite.
Before he got far, I cleared my throat and asked, “What’s his name?”
Ichabod stopped, turned back towards me, and answered, “Andreas Hoff.”
I nodded curtly, dismissing him.
* * *
By the time I finally got home, the city was drowning itself in rain. The streets below my apartment ran slick with reflected neon, gutter rivers carrying the day’s filth out of sight. I shrugged off my coat, hung it with mechanical precision, and poured a glass of white wine.
Taking a sip, I toed on my house slippers and slid into an armchair, Ro’s file under my arm.
The surface notes were the same as earlier—age, no paper trail worth a damn, Elias Craig listed as the owner of hisapartment. He was a ghost living under someone else’s roof. But deeper inside…
