Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
“Me,” I told him.
“And then a woman ramming into me.”
“She lifted your wallet, didn’t she?” he asked, shooting me a bemused smile.
“She did. I need to know who she is and where I can find her.”
“For what purpose?” he asked, suddenly wary.
“To get my wallet back. I’m not gonna hurt her.”
“Alright. Well, you want to make yourself comfortable or make some coffee, go ahead. This is gonna take a while.”
With that, he put on a pair of bright yellow headphones, and got to work, seeming to forget that I even existed; he was so focused.
Left to my own devices, I got up and made my way toward the kitchen, figuring we could both use a little coffee.
But the trash was overflowing.
So I went ahead and took that—and the other bag that had been behind the door—out. When I got back, it seemed natural to just… clear the counters of trash and bottles. And if I was going to be taking another trip down to the dumpster, then why not just clean up the crap all over his desks and nightstand while I was at it?
The next thing I knew, it was two hours later. My jacket was off. My sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. I had steadily worked my way through all the various dirty dishes and decided to pull all the shelves out of the filthy fridge to scrub.
I wasn’t necessarily obsessive about things being clean. But I kept a tidy home myself. And when I was stressed or couldn’t sleep, I found myself doing some sort of deep cleaning that I’d been putting off.
It was a habit I’d inherited from my mother. Both because she cleaned when she was restless as well, and because chores were simply part of our Sunday morning routine. It didn’t matter how good of a housekeeper she was; when you had seven kids, shit got out of hand fast if they didn’t all pitch in on occasion.
It just stuck when I eventually moved out on my own.
Besides, I’d always rather be productive than sit around and stare at someone else while they were working.
Once all the dishes and shelves were dried and put away, I found a broom and a mop that literally had their tags on, and gave the floor a good cleaning.
I might have even gotten to the bedding and the pile of laundry heaping over the basket that I figured might actually be the reason Zeno was only in shorts, but I had no idea if there was a laundry room in the building or not.
So I went ahead and finally made that coffee.
When I placed it next to Zeno’s elbow, he reached immediately for it, making me wonder if he was as in his own world as he appeared or not.
I sat down with my own cup, catching up on texts until Zeno stabbed the space key hard, making my gaze lift.
“Found me?”
“Dude, that was smooth as fuck,” he said as he pulled his headphones down to his neck.
“Tell me about it.”
“Probably doesn’t help that she’s a bombshell. All kinds of distracting.”
“Exactly,” I agreed. “Can you rewind it to before she put her hood up? Get a good picture of her?”
“Already on it,” he said. I moved my chair to watch his screen, watching the woman walk backward away from me.
“Play it back,” I demanded after Zeno stole a screen grab and started to do… something with it.
Distractedly, he hit the space key, and I saw something I’d missed on the street.
The moment her gaze landed on me.
And it wasn’t intent I saw first, like she had immediately picked me out as a target.
If anything, it looked like interest. That was quickly, for some reason, chased away by annoyance, then determination as she pulled up her hood.
“Look at you, you pretty little criminal, you,” Zeno said as I reached over to hit the space bar at just the moment I saw her stash the wallet in her own pocket.
“Just like you as a friend, man,” I teased, making him shoot me a smile as he turned his screen for me to see.
“She was arrested for trespassing four years ago. The charges didn’t stick, though. Looks like she had a killer fucking lawyer, actually.”
A killer lawyer?
When she was wearing a shitty jacket and cheap shoes? That felt… off.
“What’s her name?” I asked, unable to read the small print from so far away.
“Maxine Anne Taylor.”
“Max,” I said, thinking there was no way the woman in the video would go by such a feminine name. “You got a current address?”
“Let’s see,” Zeno said, turning the screen back to himself and starting to type.
“Seems like she lives in an apartment with some girl named Megan and another named Nicole. Those two are together.”
“Megan and Nicole?” I asked, annoyed with myself that I wanted Max to be into guys. Since she’d fucking stolen so much from me. But I couldn’t seem to help it, either.