Page 14 of Remi's War (Four Dark Horsemen 2)

Penelope

Owen stops the car abruptly, and I fly forward, my splayed palm protecting me at the last minute from hitting my forehead against the front seat. “My apologies, Ms. Walsh,” he says, worry lacing his tone as he clears his throat. “There’s a ditch on the road I hadn’t noticed.”

Straightening up on my seat and hooking a strand of hair behind my ear, I pat his shoulder, saying reassuringly, “It’s all right.” Despite my words though, he doesn’t relax; instead, the tension increases in him tenfold, judging by how the energy inside the car changes around us, and I follow his eyes trained on something in the distance.

Adjusting my new glasses on my nose better, I blink in shock at the neighborhood he brought us to, staying absolutely speechless.

The picture greeting us through the windshield can’t be called anything else but… hideous with a touch of scary.

The neighborhood recorded in the private detective’s notes presents a gloomy atmosphere consisting of gray and black concrete buildings with cracks visible under the streaming sunlight, indicating that they might collapse at any moment.

Owen starts to move the vehicle again, driving toward the destination shown on the GPS while I continue to study the street.

Nothing but emptiness surrounds the place, the grass that had once been green is now yellowed with a little orange thrown in. Several overturned trash cans are scattered across the premises, with half-open black bags filled with rotten food spilling on the ground. Flies swarm above them while a couple of cats dig into the food, meowing loudly.

People wearing different clothes from formal dresses to bikini tops roam the streets, are chatting or cruising with each other, and most of them hold some kind of drink in their hand.

We pass by a larger area with a kids’ playground containing broken swings, slides, and a sandbox filled with more trash than sand. In the middle of all this, kids are running around, giggling loudly, and still finding joy.

Owen presses on the gas pedal, rapidly heading to the massive gray five-story building that has even more cracks than the previous ones. It has a large entrance where a group of people hang around, playing cards and drinking.

From the corner of my eye, I spot a woman leaning on a car door, wearing rather provocative clothes, and I wonder if she is a prostitute making a living.

“What in the hell?” Thomas, who occupies the front seat, mutters under his breath, although I still hear it, and Owen finds a parking space—but calling it that really gives it too much credit. There are so many rocks, and some are big enough to break off a car’s door.

Thomas types something furiously into his phone, no doubt leaving a report for my father, and I grit my teeth in annoyance, trying to stay calm.

Glancing at my phone one more time, I check the address to make sure we are at the right place, but there is no mistake.

Not to sound like a judgmental bitch or anything, but somehow I imagined a private investigator, who promised to find my twin in record time, would live in some other area than this.

Everything inside this place speaks of hopelessness and doom, dead dreams, and the desire to break through the glass ceiling but being unable to do so.

Huffing in exasperation and deciding to be open-minded even though this environment leaves a lot to be desired, I quickly type a message to the woman.

Hey! I’m here.

The reply comes instantly.

Be there in five.

“Ms. Walsh, maybe you should reconsider,” Thomas says carefully, twisting in his seat so our gazes meet. “I have a list of highly recommended private investigators.”

I barely restrain the sarcastic laugh ready to erupt from my throat, because the so-called “highly recommended” ones have come up empty-handed every single time they got the case from us. Trusting in them would be foolish on my part right now.

Thomas opens his mouth to add something else, clearly taking my silence as encouragement, but the words die on his lips when I open the car door, the disgusting smell enveloping me, and I almost cough.

Stepping out, I close the door but not before addressing Thomas. “Stay in the car.” The last thing I need right now is him running his mouth and potentially offending or scaring the person who personally reached out to me.

Questionable neighborhood or not, this person might provide me with the information I desperately crave, so my feet aren’t going to move an inch until we talk.

Based on the limited research I’ve managed to do on her, she has recently moved to Chicago from New York, where she used to work as a police officer. For some reason, she transferred here but preferred to continue her work as a private investigator, although her police record showed no conflicts leading to such a career shift.

She worked with my previous investigator for several weeks before leaving his practice and doing God knows what, and that’s how she found out about my case.

Her emails came unexpectedly to say the least, but the promise and passion behind it somehow spoke to me and made me believe her, because she possessed what all previous investigators lacked.

She is convinced she can find Amalia, because important evidence has landed in her lap; however, she needed resources to continue the search.

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