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Stepping into her space, even though I’ve already been here, is unsettling. Things have changed. I glance around, looking for clues about what kind of person this new obsession of mine really is.
The little bungalow was already small, but it feels even smaller after she’s crowded it with endless junk. I spy an hourglass from Egypt, a snow globe from Paris, a miniature opera house from Sydney, a keychain from Peru; the list goes on and on. They sit on every surface, collecting dust and looking bored.
She does have two of everything, weirdly enough. An extensive collection of his-and-hers pairings. The same mugs but in different colors. The same plates but with different patterns.
Based on this kitchen alone, I’d guess she lived with someone. But there’s no evidence of another person apart from Alyssa’s shit.
I check my phone absentmindedly. I’m waiting on a call from Carl, the private detective on my payroll. Not that I need him when I can figure out certain things for myself. Most of Alyssa’s life is painfully obvious. The woman travels a lot and I’m guessing her job is to blame. But for a traveler, there’s a distinct absence of photographs anywhere.
Until I comb through her chest of drawers and find an old shoebox stuffed far out of sight.
It’s filled with pictures. The more recent ones feature Alyssa alongside a young woman about her age. She sports platinum blonde hair and a confident smile. That would be the mysterious Elle, I assume.
But as I flip back, another girl starts to appear in almost all the older pictures. She’s dark-haired and dark-eyed and there’s a certain something in her eyes that captures my attention. A fearless gaze that doesn’t hold even the tiniest bit of self-consciousness.
I’m still immersed in the pictures when my phone starts ringing. Carl. “Hey, bossman, the results just came in from the background check you asked me to do,” he says in his raspy Boston accent. “The broad came out squeaky clean. You can go ahead and hire her without thinking twice about it.”
“I’m not looking to hire her. I just need to know her background. Give me the summary.”
“Oh. Ah. Right. Er, lemme check the notes here. Born in San Diego to a Mark and Linda Walsh. Pops was a teacher; Mom stayed home. Her father’s retired now. She had a twin sister with a weird name but it says here that she, er, died.”
That catches my attention. “She had a twin?”
“Yeah, Z… Zi… Ziva Walsh. Died at seventeen.”
I glance down again at the photo in my hands. They look nothing alike. I wouldn’t have pegged them for sisters, let alone twins. But the way they’ve got their arms wrapped around each other suggests that their bond was forged early and made to last forever.
I realize belatedly that Carl is still talking. “Wait, what was that?”
“Oh, I was just saying that this chick is a travel writer. Freelance. She’s gotten offers from a handful of different companies for steady writing positions but she’s turned them all down.”
I frown. “Why?”
“Unclear. You’d have to ask her.”
Why does everything seem to go back to talking to her? That is the thing I most want to avoid.
Maybe that’s because it’s the thing you most want to do.
“I mean, I know I sound like a hack here, but there really wasn’t much there to look into, boss. She’s a freakin’ Girl Scout.”
I snort. Based on the package of sex toys still sitting on her bed where I left them last night, I doubt that.
“Any relationship info I should know about?”
Carl hesitates. “Uh, relationship info?”
This fucking asshole’s gonna make me say it. “How many boyfriends has she had? Has she been married before? Does she have a secret child stashed away somewhere?”
I hear the shuffle of paper. “Oh, nah, no real info worth noting on past relationships. Honestly, this girl reads like a straight-up shut-in. Awful young to be livin’ like such a grandma, you know? Hey—you think she’s a vampire?”
I respond by hanging up.
I put away the shoebox and go back to prowling around. Nothing else is as interesting. Once I’ve snooped sufficiently, I do a final runthrough of the list she’s given me. I have everything she’s asked for, plus a few extras just in case.
Then my eyes land on the package on her bed. The one that got us both into this mess in the first place.
Leave it, idiot,snarls the logical voice in my head.
