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Chapter 1
Kelly
I lockedthe deadbolt to my house on my way to work Monday morning. The scuff on my shoes reminded me of my umpteenth useless date last night. I’d walked away so fast from Harold—if that was even his real name—that I’d tripped on the curb. He clearly wasn’t an accountant, as his profile had claimed. With the tattoo that had peeked out from the end of his sleeve, he probably rode a motorcycle or something.
“Hop on back, baby, and let me take you for a ride,” might have been his next line if I hadn’t escaped when I did.
No thank you. Not in a million years. Meeting a guy at a well-lit, crowded restaurant was scary enough. I’d leave the motorcycle dudes to my sister, Serena.
As I turned toward the street, the man in the dark suit looked away. Right on time, he walked down my street as I came out of my house, two safely predictable peas in a pod.
That was my life, all right: predictable and safe, though Serena described it as boring.
What the hell did she know? Her seat at work wasn’t two desks down from a girl who’d been abducted and killed.
I focused my attention on the man continuing down the street. I’d never spoken to Mr. Dark Suit, and he always looked away when I came out. He looked married, but maybe that was just the attire. Hell, lots of people in Washington DC worked for the government and wore suits. They couldn’t all be married.
I forced myself to ignore the hopelessness of my dating life and unzipped the pocket of my purse to retrieve my car key as I walked. After buckling up, I started the engine.
Why aren’t there any decent guys in this town?All I wanted was an accountant who wasn’t an ax murderer. Well, not quiteall—I also wanted one who didn’t still live with his mother.
I put the car in reverse.
Or maybe an actuary—anybody in finance, or even insurance, would be okay. A guy who liked math. He’d keep his toothbrush clean.
Fucking shit.
The low fuel light was on. Like an idiot, I’d forgotten to fill up yesterday, and now there wasn’t enough time to get gas before I was due at work.
Cursing my awful luck, I got out and started after Mr. Dark Suit, staying on the opposite side of the street. Dupont Circle station was several blocks away. The DC Metro was swift, comfortable, and clean by American subway standards, but it was slower than driving, and Monday was not a good day to be late to work at the Smithsonian. Helmut Krause held his weekly status meetings bright and early every Monday, and attendance was mandatory.
I’d been late to the first one he’d scheduled after his arrival, and just my luck, he’d made a public example of me. He’d called me up to the front to explain why I was late, which had made me bad employee of the month. Talk about embarrassing, he’d even made me repeat my name to the group. I didn’t know everybody in the building, but they certainly knew me after that. The under-the-breath murmurs and sideways glances had taken months to die down.
Shame, thy name be Kelly Benson.
Reaching the tracks, I chose a different Metro car than Mr. Dark Suit, and I changed to the blue line at Metro Center. The LED screen inside the car showing the next stop couldn’t change fast enough. Finally we reached L’Enfant Plaza, and I made a dash for the escalator.
Arriving at our building, I passed through the metal detector.
Hal was the security guy at the x-ray station today, as he was almost every Monday and Wednesday. He checked his watch as my handbag ran through his machine. “A little late this morning?”
He and I had a running joke that my arrival was predictable enough that he could set his watch by it, but not today.
“A little.”
During the quick elevator ride up to my desk to lock away my purse, I realized I actually had a few minutes to spare.
When I arrived at my workspace, a light tan interdepartmental envelope with my name on it sat on my desk. OPS was written in theFromcolumn. The guys in the Office of Protective Services all thought using OPS made them sound more important than just writing Security.
It wasn’t heavy enough to be a copy of the access logs I’d requested.
I unwound the red string holding it shut and pulled out the single sheet of paper.
The printed words make my knees go weak.
On Tuesday night reset the key code of the southeast door by the loading dock to 1-1-1-1
Or end up like Brooks
