Page 37 of Sinister Secrets

“Yes, that’s true.”

“May I ask why?”

“Well… I guess I don’t really know, actually.” She gives a nervous laugh. “I just assumed it was because someone new bought the business.”

“Forgive me.” I flash a smile. “I don’t know much about how these things work, but is there a reason that would be necessary? Like a licensing issue, or something?”

“No.”

“Would you mind providing me with the current owner’s contact information so that I might ask?”

“I can provide you with the name and number of the company’s registered agent.”

“Have you been instructed to do that if someone wishes to speak with the owner?”

She hooks a finger into the collar of her blouse, swallowing hard. “I’ve never actually met them, to be honest. I was hired by an agency. When I asked who I should contact if I had any questions…”

“You were told to contact the registered agent.”

She gives an apologetic nod. “I wish there was some way I could help.”

Another dead end. I resist the urge to grab my hair and pull, struggling to think of a more productive countermove instead.

“Maybe there is. I was hoping to speak with someone who knew Gordon Massey. Your receptionist said the name was familiar.”

“Yes. When I took over, he still had several deals pending. I did try to get in touch with him—his office still contained some of his personal property—but he never responded to my calls.”

Sitting up straighter in my seat, I say, “Do you still have any of the items?”

“I do.” Rising, she crosses to a narrow door and opens it. Reaches into the closet, removes a bankers box with Gordon’s name written in black marker on the side, and sets it on the desk before me. “I wish I could be more help.”

“This is great, thank you.”

I try not to be offended by the relief I see on her face as I stand to leave, tucking the box under my arm, though I can’t help feeling a bit jealous instead. Her headache might be over, but I suspect that mine is just beginning.

CHAPTER 21

The sky is cloudless and clear, a bright shade of blue that calls to mind calm seas and spring flowers and makes it seem impossible that anything bad could happen. But I know otherwise. Beauty might conceal darkness, but it doesn’t vanquish it.

As I leave Gordon’s old real estate office, I can’t help wondering if new beginnings are also one of the things meant to conceal what’s going on in the shadows, because there’s no denying that something strange happened there, and whatever it is feels as shady as the far side of the moon. I need to discover who the new owner is, as well as the past owner. I need to establish that they aren’t one and the same.

Reaching my car, I deposit the box of my old friend’s belongings on the passenger seat before rounding the vehicle and slipping behind the wheel. Locking the door, I turn the engine on, crank the AC to chase away the sweltering heat, and turn to face the box beside me.

It’s funny. It doesn’t feel like I’m sharing the small space with evil, and yet I can’t help thinking of the cardboard and what it contains as exactly that, like the benign-looking trinket that brings death and destruction in a supernatural horror movie.

But maybe I’m wrong. For all I know, there’s a silver platter with the answers to all my questions inside. I guess there’s only one way to find out.

Removing the lid, my throat tightens as my eyes land on the top item, a framed photo of Gordon standing in front of his house, beaming at the camera as he points to the SOLD rider on the FOR SALE sign in the yard. He looks so happy. So proud. So normal.

Had the man grown past the obsession that caused him to defile his high school yearbooks? Or was the enraged boy still lurking within, growing to fill a larger body?

Setting the picture aside, I shift through the rest of the items. There’s a handful of personal effects, mementos from vacations, a fancy pen with his name engraved on it. Various office odds and ends, from a box of paperclips to a stapler and highlighters in various colors. But what takes up a majority of the space inside the box are papers.

Shuffling through them quickly, I see that most are client contracts. I use the rearview mirror to look at the office behind me, knowing I should return them, but I want to take my time and read them first. As the blinds in the front window part, someone inside no doubt spying on me, wondering what I’m still doing in the parking lot, I decide not to do it here.

Buckling my seatbelt, I put the car in gear and make the short drive to Beans and Brews, the little café on the water where I had my first mochaccino as a teenager, but that’s not why the place has always held such a special place in my heart—that honor goes to their homemade cinnamon buns the size of your head. I cross my fingers as I fit my car into a narrow spot and walk inside, box tucked under my arm.

Placing my order, I make my way to the other end of the counter to wait. Set the box down on the nearest table to free my hands and grab a stack of napkins from the dispenser, knowing I’ll need them.