Page 12 of Heathen

I bet that's what that guy would expect who came into the store last night, I think as I climb into my car and send up a quick prayer that the damn thing starts today. It gave me trouble this morning at home, but it finally cranked just as I was about to give up and grab the bus.

The engine turns over immediately, as if I've never had trouble getting it started before, and I have to smile, knowing just how silly it is that I'm grateful that something works when it's supposed to. I guess that's where I've gotten in life.

Instead of driving straight to the taco place because I know I have food to eat at home, I turn the opposite way out of the parking lot.

I don't know what prompts me to drive past the house those women went to the other day, but I do, finding the house devoid of any activity. They must've already dropped the groceries off. I bet that since they tend to shop at the same time when they come in, another group of women were taken to that warehouse.

Wanting answers to more questions than I'll ever have the chance to ask, I drive in that direction next, slowing down near the building and coming to a stop two blocks up.

It's not really possible to see much in the rearview mirror, so I move up the block and stop directly in front of the massive door.

There's no activity, no one coming out or going in. I don't even see the sleek SUV that I saw the other day. The place looks completely abandoned, and if it weren't for the camera up in the corner facing the door, I'd think it was just another decrepit area of Vegas that time has forgotten.

Instead of going home and minding my own damn business like an intelligent woman who has a healthy dose of self-preservation, I turn the ignition off, knowing that if there was ever a time my car wouldn't restart it would be now.

I pull in a deep breath as I climb out, making sure to lock the doors, even though I know that it won't stop someone from breaking in. This thought has me opening the car back up, hiding my purse under the seat, and relocking the doors.

The heat from all the concrete swirls around me, and I blame it entirely for the sheen of sweat that begins to dot my brows, because giving in to the echo of fear I'm feeling won't answer any of the questions I have.

I'm not insane. I know how dangerous it is to be in a place like this. I have no business here, and I'm well aware of that, but I want to know what happened to Alena. I need to know that she's safe, and if she's not, then I need to figure out a way to help her.

Surprisingly, there's no doorknob on the door, only a sheet of steel covering the outside, a way of preventing anyone from being able to pick the lock. It should be enough to make me turn around and haul ass back to my car, but either determinationor stupidity prevents it. If this ends terribly, I don't know that distinguishing between the two will even matter.

I pull in a deep breath as I raise my hand to knock, but fear makes me come to my senses, and I quickly turn away and head back to my car.

I'm only a handful of feet away from the door when it swings open.

"Can I help you?" a man asks at my back.

My initial instinct tells me to run, but the Texas transplant to Vegas southern hospitality reacts first, making me turn to face the man with a smile on my face.

He's massive, like the guy a movie producer would hire to play Goliath, and my hands immediately begin to tremble.

"Can I help you?" he repeats, his voice more of a growl than actual words, but there's something in the tone of it that just gets on my last damn nerve.

"Do you always talk to people like that?" I snap and stand as tall as my frame will allow.

A slow, twisted smile tugs up the corners of his mouth, but it looks more like a sneer than a grin, and that crawls all over me as well.

My hands turn into fists as I fully face him. I know there will come a time when I'll reflect back on this and know I should've taken a different tack, but now isn't the time for reflection and consideration.

"Are you looking for work?"

I allow my eyes to sweep over him. He's in dark navy work pants and a vertically striped shirt with a business patch on the right breast that readsA-1 JANITORIAL.

I'm reconsidering my argument about my insanity because I let my hands relax at my sides and dip my head.

"I am," I tell him. "I have many years of cleaning experience."

His eyes dip lower on my body as his smile widens. "I bet you do. You're American?"

"Y-yes," I say, wondering if that would disqualify me from getting inside and poking around in an effort to determine what happened to Alena. Maybe she just no longer works for the janitorial service. Maybe this isn't as nefarious a situation as my gut was trying to warn me that it was.

"Come on in," he says, stepping fully outside and holding the heavy door open for me. "I'm sure Dima has time for an interview."

"Well," I say, trying to delay going into the building. "I may need to schedule it at a different time."

I can't see anything on the inside other than a dark tunnel, and it leaves me with a heavy feeling in my gut.

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