Page 77 of Targeted By Vengeance

After he collected Ares’s personal belongings from the hospital, we used his wallet to find his home: a townhouse on the edge of the city. Inside, the walls were bare and only the essential furniture lay around the rooms. Throughout all my years in the FBI, I’d never seen a living space so empty. Even with some of the worst of the criminals, there was usually at least one belonging of interest: a photo, a painting, a candle - something that marked the space as theirs. I wondered if Ares was here long enough to claim the place. With as much as we moved around, I wouldn’t be surprised if he never got the chance to make this house a home.

Mateo walked up the wooden steps to the upper level, barely casting a glance at the rooms beyond the entryway.

Maria and I exchanged raised brows before following behind him.

“Have you ever been here before?” I whispered to her.

She shook her head.

On the upper level, all the doors were closed. The blinds on the window at the end of the hall were pulled shut, trapping the hall in darkness.

Even without a light to guide him, Mateo easily counted down the doors until he found the one he was looking for. Turning the knob, he unveiled the office on the other side.

A desk sat between a full bookshelf and rows of file cabinets. Atop it was a desktop computer, a few small picture frames and a small replica of a Steelers helmet. A folder lay over the keyboard. As I came closer, I realized Mateo’s name was scribbled on the front of it.

Mateo sighed as he sat in the rolling chair behind the desk, his shoulders falling from the newfound weight of the throne.

“Can we help with anything?” I asked.

He set an elbow on the armrest of the chair and leaned his chin into his hand. “Nah,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on the folder. “I’ve gotta…I’ve gotta read through the instructions. Sort through whatever he’s got on this computer. Figure out what I’m gonna do next.” His chest rose and fell with another deep breath. “We’re probably gonna be here for a little while.”

We can sort through the kitchen, Maria suggested. Make sure there’s enough groceries to last us a few days.

Mateo nodded. His eyes had already glazed over, his mind somewhere else.

Maria and I headed out of the office, closing the door behind us.

“Is he gonna be okay?” I asked as we jogged down the steps.

I don’t know, Maria signed with a frown. Time will tell, I guess.

We spent the next few hours rummaging through the fridge and pantry, checking dates on containers and tossing any medications we found with Ares’s personal information on it. All of his prescriptions were in what I assumed was another alias: Jonathan Anderson. Although the name might’ve been fake, it made me wonder what Ares’s real name was. Made me ponder over the idea of changing my own someday.

While I haven’t necessarily felt like the woman I used to be, I’m definitely closer to the woman I’ve always wanted to be. I didn’t think I needed a name to solidify her. The one my parents gave me was working just fine.

By the time we finished cleaning, the sun had set and both of our stomachs were grumbling. We decided to make a home cooked meal as opposed to ordering. We figured after the day Mateo had, he might appreciate some food made with love and intention.

Once the food was ready, I carried his plate to the bedroom and knocked gently on the door.

“Come in,” he replied, his voice lower than usual.

When I opened the door, I saw him sitting at the desk in the corner, typing away on the computer. His eyes were red from the excessive amount of blue light, and bags were beginning to form under them.

“Take a break,” I told him, closing the door behind me. “Maria and I made your favorite.”

He barely glanced at the plate of jerk chicken and rice I presented to him. “I’m not hungry,” he muttered.

“Mateo, I know you’re riding some tough waves right now, but you need to eat.”

“I will,” he promised. “Just not now. I’m in the middle of something.”

“Whatever you’re doing can wait twenty minutes.” I slid the computer out from under his fingertips and placed the plate there instead. “Eat.”

He picked up the fork with a sigh. His lips pulled into a deeper frown as he poked at the pieces of chicken.

“Do you wanna talk?” I asked.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he murmured. “Loss is a part of life. It is what it is.”