Page 137 of Property of Bob

Anchor scowled. “Fucking Ron. I played right into his fucking game.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Vin,” Anchor called.

“Yeah?”

“Check the printer history again. Anything stored. Anything that might’ve been printed from an email or downloaded.”

“On it.”

“Post, Piney, keep going through those cabinets. Skull, take every fucking binder off those shelves. I want the backs checked too.”

Skull grabbed the first binder. “You got it.”

Anchor looked at me. “You good?”

I frowned. “Why does everybody keep asking me that?”

“Because you almost died.”

Fair, but he could see that I was doing fine. “I’m good. What do you want me to do?”

Anchor nodded to the notes in front of me. “Comb over those notes. There aren’t many words on them, but just check them for anything we missed.”

I sat down again and pulled the notes toward me. Just stared.

BERNICE KNOWS TOO MUCH.

My throat tightened and I swallowed carefully. Every time I thought of her, guilt suffocated me, and I wished I could go back to that night.

I tried to focus on the note and not my own fucked-up feelings.

Bernice hadn’t been random. I’d already known that but knowing and seeing it printed in front of me were two different fucking things.

Whoever was doing this hadn’t just decided to kill her that day. They’d been watching her.

The question was why.

What the fuck had Bernice known that was worth killing her over? And who had she told?

I leaned back in the chair.

My mind flashed to Ramona. She was probably awake by now. I hadn’t told her where I was going because she’d been sleeping, and I hadn’t wanted to wake her.

I could already hear her. You disappeared.

I’d tell her I hadn’t disappeared. She’d tell me leaving while she was asleep was pretty much the definition of disappearing. Then I’d kiss her, and she’d probably forget what we were arguing about.

I smiled.

“You’re fucking smiling.”

I looked up, and Skull was staring at me. “No, I’m not.”

“You were.”

“Mind your business.”

Skull’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Ramona?”

“Fuck off.”