Page 67 of Breaking the Sinner

But screw it. Desperate times called for desperate, and braver, measures. She wanted to check in on Cobra. So she would do it the only way left to her.

Gen clicked over to the Employees tab of the accounting software. The long list of people stared back at her, a list that included janitors and trainers and marketing professionals and more. Travis’s payroll. She knew that the software contained all the sensitive information necessary for accounting and government compliance. Travis had shown her once where to find addresses and numbers, in the event of an emergency.

Did this qualify as an emergency? She didn’t want to think too hard about it, lest she talk herself out of the breach. She ran down every name once. And then a second time.

There was no Cobra.

Her stomach twisted. Of course Cobra wasn’t his given name. She knew plenty about pseudonyms. But how could she enact her plan if she didn’t even know his real name? She nibbled on her bottom lip, combing through the list again. Waiting for one to jump out at her.

When the name didn’t magically reveal itself, she started the process of elimination. Lexington Olivo and Travis Holt—easy. Geo Reddicker—a part-time trainer she didn’t see often. Hawk Romano—she couldn’t recall his face, but she’d heard plenty about him. A fighter who’d lost a big match earlier in the year. She frowned, copied the names to a Word document to better pare it back.

After taking out all the female names and scouring her memory for the rest of the weight room, training, MMA camp, and janitorial staff, three names remained. Brendan Yountz, Harold Pfeiffer, and Drew Sutton.

Gen blew out a burst of air. She imagined Cobra as a Brendan, then as a Harold, then as a Drew. All of them somehow fit but also didn’t as Cobra’s legal name. She looked at the addresses of each. Couldn’t place a single street listed. And then she remembered—the phone numbers.

One employee had a cell listed, which didn’t match Cobra’s number. So that eliminated Drew. So that meant Cobra had to be a Brendan or a Harold.

Gen tapped her finger on the desk as she thought about other ways to be a detective. This stuff didn’t come easily to her. She didn’t tend to poke or prod where she wasn’t supposed to. The moralizing whine in the back of her head told her to keep her head down and let it go. This was wrong. This was spying.

But before she could convince herself to drop it, one more idea occurred to her. She clicked through tabs, finding the pay stub information. Dates of issue, for as far back as she could find.

Harold had been receiving paychecks from Holt Body for the last two years.

Brendan, only three months.

Gen nodded, her belly tightening with excitement. So Cobra was Brendan after all. She scribbled down his address. Time to make a house call.

The late afternoon churned on in a formless blur. Once she was in her car and using the GPS to find Cobra’s apartment, she realized she couldn’t even recall leaving the gym or whether or not she’d said goodbye to anyone.

Each mile she progressed, her belly twisted harder. Already, she knew Cobra would be mad. She expected that. He’d made it clear from the start that people didn’t go to his house. And maybe it was her own morbid curiosity convincing her to turn his absence into an emergency. Maybe she was just desperate to see him.

Maybe this was what falling in love felt like. Pure insanity. Melanie had made some reference to a movie calledFatal Attractionthe other day. Something about a rabbit. Maybe Gen was already off the deep end, between Bunny and tracking down Cobra at his house.

Gen missed the small entrance to a dilapidated apartment complex, so she had to make a lap around the block. Abandoned cars sat with hoods open, wheels missing. Weeds sprouted through cracks, and even though the sun shone strong, she still felt chilly here. Cobra’s apartment complex had a wooden sign hung on the faded red brick, but no trace of the words remained. Instead, someone had spray painted the wordBitchin neon orange.

Gen sat in her car for a few moments, gathering her courage. This looked like the type of place her father had warned her about. She felt it down to her bones. Now she saw—Cobra didn’t want her here. And maybe she shouldn’t be here.

But she hadn’t come all this way for nothing. With a deep breath, she pushed her car door open and stepped outside, peering up at the building. The door pushed open, and a wild-haired woman stepped out, glaring at Gen immediately.

“The fuck you lookin’ at?” she muttered as she shuffled away into the parking lot.

Gen rubbed damp palms on her black work shorts and hurried toward the door. Apartment 21F. She’d memorized his address, probably could recite it until the day she died.

Inside the building, the smell of mold assaulted her. Bass thumped through distant walls in time with heated arguments and the smell of onions. She scanned the nearby doors, then hurried up the stairs. 21F—the last one on the left. She took a deep breath.

And then she knocked.

At first nothing happened. The same muted undertones from everywhere around her continued. She knocked again. Her stomach wrenched, and suddenly she had to pee. This had been a bad idea. She should never have come.

No answer.

She knocked one more time, more forcefully than before. Starting a slow count in her head, she gave herself until ten. And then she’d leave, tail between her legs.

One…Two…Three…

Stomps sounded from behind the door. A low, guttural laugh. The door whipped open, and a man with spiky black hair stared out at her. His beard scruff was unkempt, and he looked like maybe he hadn’t seen the outside world in days. His eyes widened when he saw Gen.

“Well, hello. You came to the right place, whatever it is.”

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