Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake) by Rachel Caine (books to read in your 20s female TXT) 📕

the white man in the ball cap . . . but this cap was battered and old even before our tussle. Well worn and dirty. I didn’t get the same impression from the man in the car.

It strikes me that the man in the car is MalusNavis, and Len . . . Len is his bait. Chosen for the likeness, especially the ball cap I’m sure he always wears.

Len holds out his hand. “Thank you for helping me. That was real nice of you.”

I didn’t help him. I chased him and knocked him down, and he’s thanking me for paying him guilt money. I’m honestly taken aback, and worried about his ability to cope in the world, especially with what must be a significant cognitive impairment. “Len, do you have a real place to stay? Like, a home?”

“I do,” he says. “When I want. I like to be out, though. It’s better. Most of the time it’s nice.” There’s a certain flatness to his affect and, at the same time, a kind of weird innocence. I think he means it. And that’s even more worrying.

“Please be careful. Len? If you see the man again, would you give me a call?” I hand him my card. It goes to a J. B. Hall number that forwards to my regular cell, anonymously.

“I will,” he says, and puts the card in his pocket. “You take care, ma’am.”

I can’t believe that the man I chased down on foot is somehow wishing me well. Or that he’s walking away with my cash in his pocket. This has all taken a very odd direction.

“Hey,” I call after Len. He stops at the end of the alley and turns toward me. “Why were you going back into the mail shop today?”

“I had another thing to mail for that man,” he says. “You want it? I should have said, I guess.”

I come forward as he holds out a thin white envelope. It has my old name and address on it. But it isn’t Melvin’s handwriting this time. I don’t recognize it at all.

“When did he give you this?” My tone’s sharp now. And Len shuffles back a step, sensing trouble. I try to moderate my tone. “I need to know this, Len. Please.”

“I saw him this morning,” he says. “Real early. Like, before dawn. I was staying the night at that mission over there. I was too tired to walk home.” He points vaguely off to the right, but I don’t know this part of town. “I saw him outside. Like he was waiting for me. He gave me more money for doing it, do you want that?” He starts fumbling in his pocket. I hold up a hand to stop him.

“Keep it,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

He nods and moves off, shuffling at first, listing a little, then moving more smoothly. A glitchy machine remembering how to walk.

MalusNavis picked him because of the general resemblance. Because that would bring me here, eventually. He wanted to see if I was clever enough to find the card. And his damaged, innocent bait.

I open the envelope and pull out a letter. I instantly recognize the computer-printed prose.

I know you’re hunting me. Good. You and I were always meant to meet.

Everything that follows will be because of you. You have a chance to save the lives of the people you love, but that’s going to be your choice, not mine.

I’m your destiny, Gina Royal. I’m what you’ve earned.

I swallow hard. This feels . . . different. Cold, methodical, driven. His earlier email felt more like casual cruelty, but this is a change. A direct challenge. I can feel it all around me, like a fog.

I look the direction that Len has gone, but he’s out of sight. I don’t think there’s much else he can offer up, but I’m hopeful that he’ll call me if he’s approached again. I hope he stays safe; I have the ominous feeling that MalusNavis is very good at covering his tracks.

I head the direction of the shelter he indicated he stayed in last night. It’s four blocks down, in one of the very worst areas of Knoxville, and I stand out in my unofficial cop clothes like a neon sign. The area’s full of homeless people, grubby tents crowded together in clusters under bridges and in alleys. People give me a wide berth, avoiding looking at me at all. I look like the law to them. It’s more protection than I’d have if I’d come here just in my regular jeans-and-work-shirt look, but it doesn’t guarantee that someone won’t get aggressive. A significant portion of people out here are high, looking to get high, desperate to get high, or mentally ill. And cop or not, I look like I might have something better than what they have.

I’m glad it’s daylight. But I’m also aware that the storefronts around here are mostly empty except for the convenience store on the corner. And one look at their antiquated camera system tells me it’s not worth the try. I doubt it even works.

I check at the shelter and ask about Leonard Bay. The tired young woman on duty checks the register and shakes her head. “Not on here,” she says. “But they don’t usually put their real names, either, and we don’t ask for ID; most of them don’t have any, or if they do, it isn’t their own. Can you describe him?”

I do, including the damage to his head. That’s memorable.

She blinks and says, “Oh, him. He did come here last night. Stayed the night. Left early.”

“What did he say his name was?”

She looks at the register, then turns it toward me and points. “That’s him.”

It’s an illegible mess. I can’t make out a thing. He’s far from the only messy writer on the page, but this seems worse than normal, more . . . chaotic.

“He has some kind of brain damage, he took his hat off and showed me,” she says. “Real sad. I don’t think he’s regularly homeless, though. He dresses too neat, and