I stood in the middle of my office, not knowing what thread to pull first. It was after seven. I’d have no luck at Sterling until morning. I stood at the window, my mind trying to order disparate bits of detail. I took a deep breath, let it out, then took another, watching as the seven-eighteen Metra local, two minutes behind schedule, rattled by at the corner. When it disappeared from view, my tired eyes shifted to the street to track a tall man with a short dog on a leash making their way up the block. Slow and steady, picking through one lead after another, that’s how the work is done. Someone was lying. I had to figure out who and why, but not tonight. I closed the blinds, tossed my notes into a folder, and headed home.

Chapter 19

Chapter 19

I parked a block from my building and walked around to the back stairs, up to the third floor, treading lightly so as not to disturb Mrs. Vincent. I didn’t want a repeat of this morning’s encounter. I’d been doing all I could lately not to lead trouble back to my doorstep, to my family. It was a lesson learned the hard way.

Mrs. Vincent’s windows were dark when I crept past them. At seven-thirty PM, she was likely in bed watching television, locked in for the night. Still, I checked to make sure her windows and door were secured before moving on. I avoided looking at the second-floor windows, but thought of little Nate all the same. Up on the third floor, I eased my key into my door, slipped inside, and flicked on the kitchen lights. I was startled to see blue light shining in from the living room, the sound of my television blaring. Not a burglar. No self-respecting thief was going to ransack your place, then sit down to watch Survivor, unless he or she was a complete idiot.

Halfway down the hall, I spotted a bedraggled travel sack leaning against the front door, and knew who it belonged to. Barb. I relaxed. What was she doing here? She and her jungle pack were supposed to be in Tanzania teaching English to little kids. I turned the corner, expecting to see her sitting on my couch, but found instead Mrs. Vincent, her nimble hands knitting their way through a lap full of lavender yarn.

“I brought you a bowl of red beans and rice,” she said, not bothering to look up. “It’s in the fridge.” She peered up at me through thick bifocals hanging from a chain. I looked around the room; no one else in it. This felt like a setup, an ambush.

“Why’s Barb’s bag here?”

She balled up the yarn she hadn’t yet gotten to and stuffed it into the embroidered bag she kept it in. “She’s in the guest room sleeping. It’s a long way from Africa.”