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“Alright, Julian, time for you to skedaddle. We have some serious gossip to catch up on – the good, the bad, and the hilariously ugly. Does he not groom down there? It's a jungle, isn't it?” She whispers loudly, causing Julian to experience a moment of embarrassment.
I can't help but giggle, glancing at Julian, whose expression is a priceless mix of amusement and mild horror at the turn of conversation.
Happy seems inadequate to describe how I feel, but it’s the first word that comes to mind. I feel... whole again, like all the empty parts that were torn from me are now being sewn back together.
Chapter 50
Julian
I left Poppy with Harper as she attempted to install the deadbolt, the sounds of their bickering and laughter trailing behind me as I went to my apartment. The hot water from the shower cascades over my shoulders, but its soothing warmth does little to ease the tension knotting my muscles.
Call it intuition, but something about Harper and Poppy’s recent conversation is gnawing at me. As a former Lieutenant of Delta Force, I've learned to trust my gut and be smart about it. That’s what I’m going to do now.
I turn off the shower, the steam swirling around me as I step out and wrap a towel around my waist. Grabbing my phone, I dial the front desk, a number I've never needed before now.
"Hello, front desk," chirps Bethany, a single, divorced mom of two, working this as her second job. I make it a point to know people; it was part of my job as a soldier. And yes, I even knew about the swingers who used to live on the second floor. I just never gave a shit because, at the time, I wasn't living in the building, I was deployed.
“Hey, it’s Julian from 12A,” I start, my voice steady despite the storm brewing in my mind.
“Mr. Sterling, I don’t have any packages here for you,” Bethany replies with her usual warmth. I've always appreciated her; she knows this building and its residents like the back of her hand.
“I was actually calling about maintenance.”
“Oh no, what’s wrong? Let me message Marsha,” she offers eagerly, always ready to help.
“No need,” I interject quickly, keen to get to the point. “I was curious about the maintenance man who came by to fix the sprinkler heads, and I didn’t catch his name.”
I just need a name to start digging.
“Um,” Bethany hesitates, her voice tinged with uncertainty. I can almost picture her furrowing her brows in confusion. “I’m sorry, Julian, but there is only Marsha. I’m not aware of a new hire.” Her voice wavers slightly, and that's all the confirmation I need. I find myself involuntarily bracing, widening my stance as if preparing for an unseen threat.
“My neighbor mentioned there was an issue, a recall for the sprinkler heads. A maintenance man came by to replace hers. I wanted to make sure mine were not recalled.”
“Um…” I can hear the rustling of papers, the sound of Bethany flipping through notes or a logbook, trying to make sense of my query. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re referring to. Let me call Marsha and ask. Can I call you back?”
I grip the phone tighter, a knot forming in my stomach. “That would be great. Thank you, Bethany.”
The call ends, but I remain motionless for a moment, the phone still pressed to my ear. The silence in my apartment feels heavier now, laden with unanswered questions and growing suspicions.
Bethany's return call confirms my fears: there was no recall and no maintenance personnel other than Marsha. It makes no sense. We caught the Russian and the sniper, but something's off, and it’s not just intuition now.
I dial my uncle next, the man who knows everything.
“Jay, how was the lake?” Uncle answers, his voice always welcoming despite his line of work.
"It was great," I bite.
"But?" He senses my worry.
I brief him on the situation, my voice betraying a hint of emotion.
“Well,” Uncle Dan sighs, “It’s possible they were scoping out Poppy as their next target for blackmail. I’ll look deeper, but Julian, we got them.”
“I know.” The memory of my fist connecting with the man who targeted my brothers and me is vivid. “But they were inside her apartment.” The thought alone fuels a protective rage in me, an urge to keep her safe at all costs.
“When you’re at work tomorrow, I’ll send someone to check it out and look at her apartment,” he offers casually, as though deploying CIA operatives is as mundane as food delivery.
“Her friend Harper is here,” I add, pacing the length of my bathroom.
