Page 98 of Marked

“But first, we have finish what we started here,” she says softly.

“Yes.” I nod. “When you’re ready.”

Her body tenses in preparation.

“I’m ready, Zack. Let’s finish what we started.”

Special Agent Laurens lives in a two-bedroom ranch in the western suburbs. Potted flowers decorate her porch. A garden gnome stands guard beneath a maple tree in the front yard.

“What if she’s not home?” Harley questions as we make our way up the walkway to her front door.

“She’s home,” I assure her, pointing to the window on the garage. “Her car’s here.”

Harley rings the doorbell, then steps back to my side.

“Are you sure this will work?” she asks while we wait.

“It will.” I move the bag from my right hand to my left, then push the doorbell again. There’re no cameras.

Not surprising for a dirty cop, but stupid, considering she can’t see who’s at her door from the safety of inside.

“See? She’s not here.” Harley gestures to the door.

“She’s here,” I say, opening the screen door and pounding on the interior door.

A moment later, the doorknob turns.

“Her doorbell must have been broken.” Harley tensesbesides me.

Special Agent Laurens opens the door in a pair of black yoga pants and a bright yellow workout tank. Sweat drips down the side of her face.

We’ve interrupted her workout.

The flush from the exertion of whatever routine she was doing drains from her face when she sees us standing on her porch.

She blinks, then quickly composes herself.

“Harley.” She shoves on a plastic smile. “What are you doing here?” Her concerned eyes move to me, then to my bag.

“I’m sorry to bug you on a Saturday, but I remembered some other things, and I needed to talk to you.” She reaches for the screen door, but Laurens grabs the handle from the inside, holding it closed.

“Mom gave me your address,” Harley says. “I really need to tell you about it. Do you mind if we come in?” Harley drops her hand from the door, giving Laurens the impression that she has a say in whether or not we go inside.

There is no choice here, but she doesn’t fully comprehend the situation.

As far as she knows, people she works for, and with, have gone missing. There’s no proof any of them are dead. And there never will be. So, she has only suspicion.

And nothing to back up the idea that we’re behind any of it.

“We’ll only be a few minutes. We have dinner plans with her mom.” I make a show of checking my watch. “We only have about an hour before we have to be there. It’ll take almost that long to get there.” Laurens lives on the outskirts of the city.

Laurens relaxes.

“Okay. Yeah. But really, just a few minutes.” She pushes the screen door open, letting us inside her sanctuary.

“Let’s go in the living room.” After shutting the door behind us, she leads us to the small room just off the foyer.

It’s astandard living room. A couch faces a flat-screen television and is pushed back against a wall. Over the couch hangs a painting of some Italian village. A vase of flowers sits in the middle of the coffee table.

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