Page 73 of Nemesis

There’s no beeping alarm, no scuffle of claws on the floor.

Nothing.

I’ve been here twice before, but always with others. And never on the assumption of Nathan Bradshaw’s guilt.

There’s a little stack of dishes in the sink, and unopened mail on the counter. I take back thetidypart of my description. It doesn’t matter, though, because catching him with dirty dishes isn’t my goal.

I’m here looking for evidence of corruption.

Nathan Bradshaw has been known to take a bribe or two in his day. In fact, just a few years ago he would’ve been labeled abad guyby some. My brother, for one.

I draw my knife from my ankle and clear the house, making sure no one’s going to leap out at me from the closet or from behind a door.

He has an office-slash-guest room, his room, and one bathroom in the hall. Living room, laundry room, kitchen.

That’s it.

And besides the kitchen, it’s relatively clean.

I start with his mail, flipping through it for anything that can catch my eye. There’s nothing except some overdue bills, magazine subscriptions, and a letter from Nadine.

His sister.

There are a few envelopes with the local funeral home listed as the return address, and I pause. I set those down carefully. It sucks to lose a parent, and Nathan Bradshaw’s dad… Well, I met him once, too. He was nice, as far as I could tell.

Moving into his home office, I first try my luck with the filing cabinets.

They’re locked.

Naturally. Even someone who hides a key in the most obvious place would lock up their sensitive documents. My curiosity burns, but I can’t waste valuable time trying to pick the lock. Not if I expect to search the whole house… but the locked cabinet certainly draws my attention.

Desk is next.

There’s not a lot in there, however. Printed phone records—which I scan, but the name of the person isn’t on the sheet, and none of the numbers jump out at me at first glance. Two are highlighted, though.

I frown and take a picture of it.

He has a safe in the bottom drawer. Maybe for his gun?

I reach for the last drawer, a large one on the opposite side, just as a car door shuts—too close.

I peek out the window and immediately duck.

Nathan Bradshaw is home.

Fuck.

I dart for the closet. Since it’s a guest bedroom, it still has one. And lucky for me, it’s relatively empty. I pull the door shut softly, and the front door creaks open a split second later.

Not good.

I glance down at myself. Did I leave anything on the counter? Did I leave the back door open?

The key is still in my pocket, but I’m fairly sure I flipped the mat back down. If not… I’m about to have a gun shoved in my face. I just know it.

The sheriff moves around his house. He’s talking to someone, although I didn’t hear a second person enter.

And it’s a one-sided conversation.

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