Page 10 of Torched Spades
The deeper the thorn sinks, the harder I press on the gas until I’m so distracted, I nearly rear end a minivan.
“Shit!” Slamming on the brake, I switch lanes, making sure Becca’s Audi is still in my line of sight. “Get a grip, asshole,” I mutter to myself. “Not your woman, not your problem.”
I follow her for forty-five minutes, only to learn Dr. Becca Brennan’s personal life is only slightly more exciting than standing in line at the DMV. During each stop, I try to find proof she’s lying about not having a hand in the referral or at least gather some personal intel on her. Instead, I end up chasing this woman all over town, watching her drop off her dry-cleaning, return a library book, and pick up Chinese takeout before driving home to her upscale condo.
I should’ve cut my losses at that point.
Instead, I spend the next few hours parked across the street, watching her through her window. Herwide-openfucking window.
Seriously, no self-awareness.
I was wrong. Becca’s not a threat. She’s an introvert with no friends, no boyfriend, and no life. Smiling to myself, I turn the ignition and head toward the docks.
Let the games begin.
However, the further I drive the more my smile fades. By the time I’m less than a mile away from the docks, I’m scowling.
Something’s missing. Nobody’sthatmuch of a recluse.
Especially someone like her.
Ignoring the chorus of car horns, I jerk the wheel into an illegal U-turn and hit the gas. Consequences be damned, I pull my phone from my pocket and place a call to the Port of Providence’s dock warehouse.
As soon as the foreman answers, I don’t waste time with pleasantries.
“It’s Malone. Look, I’m going to be a little late for my shift. Came outside to a dead battery. A friend is on his way over with jumper cables so it shouldn’t be too much longer. I’ll let you know when I’m on the road.” I don’t give her the chance to ask questions. Ending the call, I toss my phone onto the passenger’s seat and floor it.
By the time I turn into the driveway of my small, two-bedroom house and exit the car, my mind is spinning with explanations, none of them good.
Storming through the front door, I grab my laptop and sink onto the couch. “Prove me wrong, Doc,” I warn as it boots up.
Once it does, I type in one name.
Dr. Rebecca Brennan.
I’m not surprised when all the search returns is a regurgitation of her resume—her schools, her studies, her certifications, her goddamn GPA. I already know all that shit, and I don’t care.
She’s not the only one with a fucking dossier.
However, this time, I’m not looking for surface information. I want the ugly details a simple Google search isn’t likely to give.
An hour and two illegal record hacks later, I have my answer.
An Official Petition for a Change of Name.
It seems Rebecca Brennan used to be Rebecca Reese, and considering none of my searches pulled up a marriage license, this was a voluntary name change somewhere around her first year of undergrad.
“What a tangled web we weave,” I muse. “Let’s see what else you’re hiding,Rebecca Reese.”
One more deep cyber dive and I find a dated obituary for Carol Reese—a striking woman with a warm smile and bright blue eyes. It only takes a few keystrokes to access all the gruesome details surrounding her untimely demise.
Early Saturday morning, police found thirty-eight-year-old Carol Reese in her Blackstone home with a fatal gunshot wound to the head along with multiple stab wounds to the chest. After pinpointing various points of forced entry and verifying missing items, police determined Reese’s death resulted from a tragic home invasion and burglary.
I read the first part again, pausing at the gunshot wounds and lacerations. Gunsandknives seems a little excessive.Something about it feels off—like an itch I can’t scratch, only this one is inside my head.
Shrugging, I finish the rest of the article.
“While detectives are investigating leads, at this point there are no suspects,” states the victim’s husband and Providence Police Lieutenant, George Reese.
