Page 1 of Roughing
ChapterOne
UNWANTED EMPLOYEE
~~Michella~~
This couldn’t be the place.
The derelict building hadn’t had an inhabitant in many years. Like so many structures in this area of Portland, this one had been used primarily as a warehouse. I checked the address again. It was the right one, but this dump didn’t look anything like I’d pictured it.
Shit.
Alarm rang through me, warning of a possible trap. Was I being set up as the next victim of the serial killer allegedly hunting on Portland’s city streets?
I nervously chewed on a fingernail but caught myself. Gone Missing Detective Agency was legit. My hockey-playing brother was good friends with the co-owner, a former pro player himself. I’d gotten this interview because of him, and I’d make him proud.
Gone Missing specialized in finding missing persons, and I wanted this assistant job in the worst way. It’d be the start of a new adventure and a new career. Of course, there’d been other aborted careers I’d also considered to be my next great opportunity, but I’d been wrong. This time was the real deal.
Besides, I had some experience with the missing. I knew the pain a family went through when a loved one disappeared without a trace, and I wanted to help. I excelled at cyberstalking. If there was information to be found online about a person, I’d unearth it.
This interview meant the world to me. My future rode on this job. I loved being a barista, but there wasn’t much room for advancement, and I craved a larger challenge. Of all the careers I’d sampled over the past decade, this assistant job carried the most promise.
Glancing once more at the time, I muted my phone and stuffed it in my coat pocket. I grabbed my folder with my résumé, got out of the car, and walked to the front door, which was boarded up. A scribbled note was pinned to the outside.
Please proceed behind the building and enter through the back door in the alley.
The alley?
I frowned and squinted at the note as if it might reveal an ulterior motive.
More concerned than ever, I looked up and down the empty street. No one loitered in a dark doorway or lingered too long on a street corner. Heaving a mind-clearing sigh, I walked around the building, stepping over weeds growing in the numerous cracks in the sidewalk.
The alley was long and dark, surrounded on both sides by two- to three-story buildings. I gingerly picked my way across the gravel pockmarked with potholes. Wearing heels to this interview hadn’t been my wisest choice.
A Subaru station wagon that’d seen better days was the lone vehicle parked in front of a steel door, screaming for a coat of paint. In direct contrast to the disrepair all around me, a small sign on the brick wall gleamed with newness.
Gone Missing Detective Agency, Portland Branch
I was in the right place.
I turned the knob and pushed on the door. It resisted, not budging. I leaned into it using my weight. It flew open and slammed against the opposite wall with a resounding bang and announced my presence. I staggered a few steps before catching my balance. Standing up straight, I composed myself before glancing around. No one had witnessed my clumsy entrance, but they’d probably heard it.
Light streamed from an opening halfway across the large room. Other than that, natural light barely penetrated this gloomy place. I half expected an unkempt attacker to emerge wielding a chain saw.
My heart pounded in my chest, and my breath came in short bursts. I fought for self-control, tamping down my overactive imagination as best I could.
Refusing to allow my fears to run wild, I strode purposely toward the welcoming light.
The sight inside the doorway gave me pause. The place was a bigger disaster than my brother’s bachelor pad, and that was saying something.
A disheveled woman in her late fifties riffled through one of the piles of paper on an old metal desk, not bothering to pick up the few that fluttered to the floor. She lifted her eyes. Her shrewd gaze assessed me as if she could tell everything she needed to know in a few seconds. Her clothes had the look of someone who couldn’t care less about her appearance, down to her wrinkled flannel shirt and jagged fingernails. Gray streaked her dishwater-blonde hair, which was pulled back into a messy ponytail, not the stylish type.
“You must be Michelle.” She made no move to stand but took a long pull on her coffee cup. She grimaced as if she’d ingested a nasty-tasting pill.
“Michella,” I corrected, already skeptical regarding my chances of snagging this job. Trendy clothes and shoes were my weakness. My clothes, hair, and makeup had to be perfect. This woman didn’t care about her appearance and didn’t wear makeup. I couldn’t see her shoes, but I’d guess Birkenstocks or worn boots.
I cringed at how superficial my thoughts were. Yet, in my experience, people took care of business in the same manner in which they took care of themselves.
“Have a seat.” Her tone would freeze an outdoor hockey rink in August. So far, so bad.
