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After clicking the phone off, I head out to the curb, and his window rolls down as I approach. Big surprise, the car interior is black leather, and the technology looks like something straight out of a cockpit. The scent from inside wafts passed me: leather and cologne, and that new car smell beneath it all.

“Looks like you’re set to move in. Your background checks out.”

“Fantastic.”

“So … I guess I’ll let you get to it. Can I get you something to drink?” I glance down at the fancy Fiji bottle sitting in his drink holder.

“No, thank you.” Climbing out of the vehicle, he takes a moment to adjust his suit, and pops the trunk of his car. Tucked inside are two large, shiny black Tumi cases that he removes with ease.

“Looks like you don’t have much to carry, so I’ll let you get settled on your own.”

“Perfect.”

“Right.”

“Do I get a set of keys?”

“Oh!” I stuff my hand into my pocket, where I put them before calling Jonah, and hand him a set. “There’s room in the garage for your car. I don’t use it, but … my car is nowhere near as fancy as yours. Um … no parties, no … drug deals, or prostitutes in and out of here.”

Face screwed up into an amused sort of smirk, he slams the trunk shut.

“I’m serious. I got enough shit going on. I don’t need my son asking those questions.”

“You’ve nothing to worry about. As I said, I keep to myself.”

“Good. Because as much as you value your privacy, I value my peace and quiet.”

“Good. Sounds like we’re a match made in heaven. I’ll let you get to your peace and quiet, while I settle into my privacy now.”

Perhaps it’s his matter-of-fact attitude that has me feeling frustrated in all of this. From the moment I talked to the guy, his voice resonated the kind of arrogance and confidence I loathe in men. Probably wouldn’t bother me near as much, if he weren’t good looking on top of it, in a rugged, career criminal sort of way.

I trail my gaze after him as he strolls off toward the backyard, carrying his suitcases that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe is worth. A glance down at the Star Wars shirt shows a chocolate stain just above the nipple, and I groan.

7

Voss

Nola Tensley is a twenty-eight-year-old single mother, whose husband was murdered in what was deemed to be a drug-related incident. Though, aside from some meth-head they picked up nearby, they really didn’t nail down too many suspects. Nola Tensley graduated top of her class and was accepted to a number of universities, all of which she rejected—likely due to pregnancy at a young age, I guess. She’s a long time waitress at Duli’s Diner, and dabbles in ceramics as a side gig.

Nola Tensley is also fucking delectable—a potential distraction I didn’t anticipate when I first stumbled upon her ad for a renter. With brown hair and those chestnut colored eyes Carl apparently wants to add to his hobby room of horrors, she’s not at all what I expected. A little spitfire who stirred my blood the moment I saw her in that too-tight T-shirt.

I toss her file onto the worn-down coffee table in front of me. The paisley patterned couch beneath me is surprisingly intact, and doesn’t smell particularly old and moldy, like the rest of the place. The outdated décor may lack the luxuries and technology I’ve grown accustomed to, but I wouldn’t have passed it up for anything. It’s here that I’ll track down and find what I’m looking for.

And so long as Nola Tensley minds her own business, I’ll not pose any threat to her, or her son. I’ve killed for lesser infractions than going through my things, and I won’t hesitate to guard that identity with my life.

After all, I’ve spent a lifetime in both the military and working for The Gallows, keeping below the radar, concealing my true identity. As far as the world is concerned, Rhett Voss is a highly successful stock trader in New York, visiting Chicago on temporary business.

I asked Jackson to find as much information on the woman as he could possibly gather—a request he was happy to oblige in, in order to keep me from hunting him down after fucking up my last job. Turns out, though, there isn’t a whole lot on the woman, and her file came back surprisingly thin. Of course, Jackson hasn’t always been the most thorough at gathering information, which will leave me to do some of the work on my own. Mostly, I like to know what I’m dealing with when it comes to the people I encounter, even if its not all business.

Unlike half the women her age, who’ve already bled the majority of their lives into social media, Nola hasn’t logged into her Facebook account in a year, nor is she listed in the White Pages online. No speeding tickets, or overdue library fines to speak of. Not even those annoying public records sites that claim to possess all I want to know about Nola Tensley have her shit right.

She’s kept herself off the radar, too.

Progress notes from Insight Outpatient Psychiatry, the only source of information available on her, lay strewn over the table, detailing Nola’s six consecutive sessions with her psychiatrist. Nothing more than breadcrumbs of information she was willing to divulge, during her appointments, that don’t add up to much of a picture about the woman. I’m left knowing very little about her, including why she stopped seeing her psychiatrist a few months back, and why she wakes up from nightmares every night. Doesn’t make much sense that she’d step outside of her airtight little box to allow a total stranger into her carefully guarded world, but I’m guessing her need for cash outweighs her desire to remain unnoticed.

Most times, Jackson’s findings are sufficient enough for me to piece together the missing parts, but all his research has done is leave me with more curiosity about the woman. Unfortunately, she’s not the only reason I’m here.

The chime of my cellphone draws my attention to a message notification on the screen. I open it to the same encrypted address as before.