Page 6 of Resurrection
“What in the world?”
Imogen handed Jury the key and unfolded the slip of paper.
“What does it say?”
All that was written on it wasXLIV.
She handed it to Jury.
“What is that?”
“I don’t know. Let’s go. Come on.”
But Jury turned around and hammered on the door instead. “I want answers. This is about Keira.”
A few moments later, the door opened again, but this time, the elegant man in the suit appeared annoyed. “This is a private residence, and its owner would prefer not to be disturbed again.”
Jury shoved the paper at him. “What is this about? What really happened to Keira? What do you know?”
“Nothing. I know nothing. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Imogen heard a hint of the French accent they’d caught on the phone.
“Who are you?” Imogen asked. “And how did the tattoo shop guy know to give us your number?”
“I don’t have any answers for you, ladies. I gave you what I had for you. That is the end of my responsibility. Good evening.”
“Wait,” Jury said. “Please, we just lost our sister. But honestly, I don’t know if she’s really the one we put in that mausoleum. Please, anything you know … just please.”
Imogen had never heard Jury beg.
“I’m sorry for your loss. Truly, I am. But there’s nothing I can tell you to make it easier. Have a good evening, Ms. Kilgore, Ms. Kilgore.”
Imogen caught a flash from the diamond-encrusted chain on his pocket watch as he shut the door in their faces once more.
Who was that guy?
Before Jury could pound on the door again, Imogen grabbed her arm. “Come on. Let’s go. We’ve got another stop on this scavenger hunt to figure out.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Imogen pulled out her phone to summon another ride as Jury googledXLIV.
“It’s a club. On LaSalle. They do events.” She held up the key. “This has to open a locker or something inside. We gotta go. It says they’re open right now.”
“Give me the address.”
Jury rattled it off, and Imogen typed it in as their destination and confirmed it for their ride.
“We’ll have a car in two minutes.”
“God, I love rideshare. What did we ever do without it?”
Imogen’s attention was drawn to the upper floor of the house, where a man’s silhouette appeared to be looking down at them from the open French doors. It wasn’t the guy in the suit. He was wearing a baseball cap. Immediately, her mind went to the tattoo artist from earlier today.
No way. It couldn’t be.But then again, why not?
He was the one who’d given them the phone number.
