Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
I worked my way through the information I had on her murder, but I couldn’t focus on the story. I shoved back my chair and went to make another cup of coffee. Came back, sat again, pulled up my research file, and stared at the blinking cursor, tapping my fingertips on the table.
This wasn’t getting me anywhere.
I mean, it was. I needed to research if I wanted to hit the ground running as soon as we had things tied up here. But first, for me to have any kind of freedom—any kind of life after this—we had to find Emily Shaw’s killer.
My brain locked on the one thing I was truly interested in.
86 Ren Pkw NE
86 Renaissance Parkway Northeast.
That was the address Emmett thought he’d traced the killer/hacker to, assuming that the person who locked me out of my socials was the same person who’d killed Emily Shaw and tried to kill me. While I normally didn’t jump on assumptions, this one seemed fairly solid, and I didn’t have anything else.
I stood and started to pace, thinking furiously. I wasn’t a prisoner. I could leave the building. Probably. The truth was, I hadn’t really tried.
But I was going to. I realized I was definitely going to try to leave.
I sat back down at my laptop. I wasn’t under any illusion that my movements weren’t being tracked—my phone, my laptop, web searches. If they wanted to, Sinclair Security could see everything I did on any of my devices.
But they weren’t monitoring me moment to moment. They had too much else to do, and why would they? One search would disappear in the pile of sites I visited while researching.
Just to be safe, I opened private browsing. Not that I thought that could defeat Emmett or Maddox or any of the other computer geeks at Sinclair. I did it anyway. Just in case.
I didn’t have a vehicle, and couldn’t use my phone or cards for a rideshare, so if the mysterious address was too far—
I typed it in, hit enter, and clicked on the icon for a walker instead of a vehicle.
Yeah. Too far. I was in Buckhead, and 86 Ren Pkwy NE was just south of Midtown. I could walk it if I had to. But looking at the map, I caught the symbol for the MARTA station in Buckhead and another a few blocks from the address. An idea bloomed.
I could get a MARTA ticket with cash at one of the machines at the station. Not entirely untraceable, considering I wasn’t leaving my cell phone behind, but close enough. Before I could think better of it, I changed clothes, twisted my hair into a bun, grabbed my jacket and my backpack, shoved my feet into my shoes, and headed for the elevator.
I hit the down button, restless with the worry that I’d be seen, and trying to stay still so I didn’t draw attention if anyone was watching the cameras in this hall. I wasn’t under surveillance, but I knew there were cameras everywhere in the building. I’d need a little luck to get out of here unobserved.
The elevator arrived, doors opening to reveal an empty car. I stepped inside, hitting the button for the first floor, then jabbing at the button to close the doors, even though I was pretty sure those didn’t work. I tensed as the elevator passed the second floor, where the offices were. If someone had hit the call button there, I’d be busted before I got anywhere. I let out a breath at the soft jolt of the car reaching the first level. The doors slid open to the empty hall I’d seen only once before, the day I’d rung the bell from the street, trying to chase down my lead on Emily Shaw. It felt like I’d lived a lifetime since then.
I followed my memory, turning right, then right again, to see the solid metal door that remained the only thing between me and the street. I half expected it to be locked, or alarmed, or something. From the street side, it wouldn’t open. I’d learned that myself. But from the interior… I pushed the latch on the handle, a bolt clunked inside the door, and it swung open. I stepped out into the crisp late winter air. I didn’t have a proper overcoat to match my semi-professional outfit, but I was glad I’d been wearing my winter raincoat when I’d left my van for a burger. It wasn’t horribly cold; this was Atlanta after all, but it wasn’t exactly spring either.
The second I was clear of the building, I put a spring in my step and moved—not fast enough to draw attention, but fast enough to cover ground.
I was glad I had a solid recall of visuals. I didn’t want to keep pulling up the map or using GPS on my phone. Instead, I turned the phone off completely. That wasn’t proof against being tracked, but it seemed like a good move.