The Night in Question. Kelsey Roberts
the kickboxer. There was a message board on the back of the door, but it had been wiped clean, leaving only hints of what had been written there. Two words, one started with the letter O maybe? Or D? Then what looked like a phone number since there were ten numbers beneath the top line. Too faint to make out.
Her search of the living room, dining room and computer nook also yielded nothing unique or special. It was a nice apartment. The only thing that was missing were her roommates. Her first instinct was to call and report them missing, but she didn’t really know if they were missing. They could be on vacation, out shopping, spending the day at the beach—anything was possible. But the prickling sensation on the back of her neck told her something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
Then she realized what was missing. There wasn’t much in the way of personal items. No credit cards, no driver’s licenses, no catalogs, no junk mail. And no telephone. Not a single landline.
“Maybe we all used cell phones,” Kresley said aloud. She added that to her list of things she needed to figure out.
There was a laptop in the small alcove. She powered it on and it asked for a password. Kresley’s frustration level went up several notches. If it was her computer—which was only twenty-five percent possible—then the password was probably something she’d remember easily, like her birth date. Except right this instant, she didn’t remember squat.
She cursed softly, then walked down to the leasing office. It wasn’t that she wanted a bonus interaction with the landlady, she just needed to borrow a phone.
It took some doing, begging actually, and giving her the lone gold earring as collateral, to get the woman to loan Kresley her cell phone. Going back to her apartment, she had the weird feeling of being watched. Glancing around, she noticed nothing out of the ordinary and berated herself for being a wuss. Kresley called information for a number and then waited as the call was automatically dialed.
“Gabe Langston.”
“Mr. Langston, we haven’t met but my name is Kresley Hayes.”
“How are you feeling?”
“A little disoriented. I was wondering if you could find out if I had a cell phone and if so, who the carrier is. Oh, and you don’t happen to remember my birthday, do you?”
“April thirtieth,” he said without missing a beat. “You’ll be thirty at the end of the month.”
“Good for me,” adding that to her list of less-than-pleasant things. “My bank info?”
“Don’t worry, turning thirty doesn’t hurt as much as being shot.”
“Well, that’s something.”
“Is my guy there?”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t get worried if you see a large blond guy with a neck like a redwood. He works for me.”
“Why would I see him?”
“He’s going to be watching out for you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Someone attacked you with a knife, then shot you and then tossed you in the Atlantic to drown. Matt and I agree that this person probably assumes you’re dead, but just in case, Matt asked me to have someone keep an eye on you.”
A chill danced along her spine. “I think my roommates are missing.”
“When were they last seen?” Gabe asked.
“I’ll find out from my landlady when I return her phone.”
“Do that and then give me a call. In the meantime, I’ll work on that bank information.”
“Okay. Thanks.” She clicked off, and headed for the bathroom to finally shower.
Very careful not to get her bandages wet—not an easy task by the way—Kresley enjoyed the feeling of the water pouring down on her. She was salty, sandy and sticky. And scared. The salt and sand washed off. The scared did not.
Knowing her name didn’t mean she knew who she was. But at least it had given her something to focus on other than what might have happened out in the ocean. Though she was grateful to Matt and Gabe for their protection, she wondered if it was enough.
Going into the living room, she picked up the photo of Janice and herself at the beach. It was fairly recent; her own hair was the same length. Carefully, she slipped the photo out of the frame and stuck between the photo and the cardboard backing was a small slip of paper with a phone number.
She stopped toweling her hair dry and dialed the number. It rang six times, then went to voice mail. Unfortunately it was one of those pre-recorded voicemail announcements and not personalized. “Hi, this—” she started, then snapped the phone shut. What if the number belonged to whomever it was who’d tried to kill her? Maybe he wouldn’t recognize her voice in the two syllables.
“Maybe you need to get a grip,” Kresley told herself as she went around the apartment checking every lock.
She dried her hair, applied some makeup and managed to contort enough to dress in a green sleeveless, ruffled-neck blouse and white capris. Going back to the computer, she entered her birth date as a possible password. She was rewarded with a bright red error screen. Kresley tried her birth date backward. Another red error screen. Then just for the heck of it, she tried the ten digits she’d found hidden beneath the frame. Bingo she was in. Sort of.
There were several file folders in the computer, and many of those led to subfolders. The Gianni folder was the only name she recognized. The main folder contained five subfolders. Janice, Emma, Paula, Abby and Kresley. Unfortunately, no matter what she tried, the computer wouldn’t let her open any of the files.
Giving up, she went to the Internet and typed in the telephone number that had gotten her into the computer. It wasn’t listed on any of the public sites. Then she searched for herself and found her cell phone number. Writing it on a small piece of paper, she hit the redial number on the phone and again had it automatically connect her with Gabe Langston.
“Langston.”
“Hi, it’s Kresley. Any luck finding my bank or cell company?”
He rattled off account numbers and the names and addresses of the closest branches and stores. “You own a lime-green VW Beetle,” he added. “Is it there?”
Kresley peeked out of the drawn drapes. “No.”
“I’ll have someone check the parking lot at the docks.”
“I’ve found a phone number and some names. Is there any way—”
“Read them off.”
Kresley did as he asked and in a matter of seconds, he had the names of her roommates. Emma Rooper, Abby Howell and Janice Cross. Only Paula remained unidentified.
“That’s interesting.”
“What?”
“Janice Cross. That’s the woman in the photo that Matt was so interested in learning more about.”
KRESLEY FIGURED her landlady would be a lot more accommodating if she showed up with the back rent. She was glad Gabe had warned her about her thick-necked shadow because he stuck to her like glue as she walked the block and a half to her bank.
She was a lefty with a bandaged left hand and unfortunately the withdrawal slip required her signature. If they asked for ID, she was toast. If she had to guess, her identification was somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic. The best she could muster was an old expired driver’s license she’d found in her panty drawer.
A thin sheen of perspiration covered her as she waited in the orderly line, created by burgundy velvet ropes. The entire time, she prayed silently. Prayed that she had enough money. Prayed that she wouldn’t get snagged by lack of identification.
A year later—okay,