It would be such a simple fix, asking Klein for a little more. As long as I had five days to spare. As long as I could keep control of Ellen long enough to get her back in the room with him. I could keep my end of the bargain. I had to hope that Jackal would, too.

On my way out, Jackal started to tidy the photographs that had fallen onto the floor, taking his time sorting them into separate piles.

“A woman used to work here,” I said, taking a shot in the dark, “when I first started.” I described what I thought I remembered: a round face, cheeks that creased when she smiled, dark hair long to her waist. I studied Jackal, looking for any clue that he knew what happened to her, or cared. “Very pretty. What was her name?”

Jackal didn’t even bother looking up from the floor. “No idea. Now get the fuck out of here.”

So I did.

Chapter 7

The listing for my apartment complex had called it “beachfront real estate,” and I guess that was true, only the beach was pretty far in front of the real estate.

You couldn’t hear the ocean over the planes, which swooped so low over the Gardens that when they landed in the morning, all the car alarms were set off like fussy newborns. Some mornings, I thought I could swipe my fingers along the undercarriage of those metal birds if I jumped.

You could smell the ocean, though. Even through the motor oil and the garbage left too long baking in the sun, even through the waxy, perfume-like jasmine bursting on the knuckled trees in the courtyard, you could still smell the vegetable saltiness of the ocean. That was the real name of the complex, Jasmine Gardens, for the trees—but those same trees attracted thick, hairy-kneed spiders. When Lou started calling it Tarantula Gardens after I moved in, it stuck.

Slinging my purse down next to the couch, I didn’t bother to turn the lights on—the bulb had gone out the week before, and I hadn’t yet bothered to replace it. My apartment wasn’t exactly welcoming to come home to—couch, carpet, and walls all a shade of Builder Beige I hadn’t bothered to update. A patio that was more like a two-by-four plank of plywood taped to the side of the building. A wrought iron fence with bars like loose teeth kept the patio this side of a personal injury lawsuit. Luxurious living. Lou called my lack of decorating “willful poverty,” but then, she was always running up tabs to buy the most expensive items, racking up class on her credit cards.