Page 17 of Behind the Shadows
“Awesome. I can’t wait. The missions are a helluva lot more rewarding than watching a bunch of drunk people.” She laughed.
“No kidding. Dope thinks it’s a good idea too. Plus, I have a bunch of shit to deal with.”
Riley glanced at me, sympathy in her expression. “How’s your mom?”
My lips pursed into a thin line. “Still a bitch and still alive. It’s best if I stick close to her for now, so I appreciate you working with Dope on this one.”
She picked up the empty box from the floor and plopped it on the black bar top. “I know you’re not one to talk much, but if you need an ear, I’m here.”
“I appreciate it. I need to work on the schedule if you’re okay here?”
“Yup. I’ve got it under control.” She grabbed the box and headed to the back, where we kept the inventory.
I’d lied to her. I had finished the schedule a few days ago, but I needed to do some research without anyone around, looking over my shoulder.
With every step down the hall to the office, my mind raced with thoughts of the mysterious woman in the car. Grateful for my close friendship with a skilled hacker, Dope, I had the means to uncover what I wanted to learn about her. With the knowledge he had imparted to me, I was ready to delve into her identity and expose any lies or secrets she may be hiding. But as I approached my computer, doubts crept in—what if I was wrong? What if this woman wasn’t who I thought she was?
As I entered the dimly lit office and powered on my laptop, a sense of unease washed over me. Once I was settled in front of the desk, I connected to the dark web. It was a place of endless possibilities, both good and bad. And today, I needed it for the latter. I could find almost anything there, including some veryscrewed up shit about people, trafficking, drugs, murder, and more.
My first destination was the hospital staff. It was a shot in the dark, but I had a feeling the woman in the car was connected to them somehow. As I combed through countless pages, my shoulders tightened as I struggled to find anything about her.
But then, I found what I was looking for. Sacred Heart Hospital had recently hired a part-time psychiatrist from California—Holland Alder. A chill ran down my spine as I dug deeper into her credentials and experience. She seemed too perfect, almost too good to be true.
And when I thought I had hit a dead end with no photo to match her name, an additional search revealed that she also worked at an office in downtown Portland, Blaine and Kirchoff. My frustration grew as I realized she was intentionally hiding her identity. She wasn't making this easy for me, which only fueled my determination to continue.
An hour later, I had a name, occupation, home address, and more. I stared at the image in front of me. Either she had changed her name, or fate was screwing with me in a twisted and fucked up way. There had to be a mistake. Struggling to talk myself out of what I suspected, my mind raced with memories of her when we were younger. For some stupid reason, I couldn’t remember exactly how old we were, though. However, the moment I saw her leaving the garage, the horror on her expression imprinted itself in my brain.
“Fuck. This is bad. Real bad,” I muttered to myself, scrubbing my face with my hands as I questioned my sanity. My night terrors had haunted me for years, a toxic blend of hatred, fear, and confusion festering in my chest. One thing was certain—I had to find out if she was really the girl from my past, or if she just looked like her.
I read through the information again, trying to piece together what the articles weren’t saying, but my brain kept returning to her career. “A fucking psychiatrist? How was this even possible?” If this woman was from my past, Holland wasn’t her real name, so why was she using it? However, a much larger question hovered over me like a menacing storm cloud.
Riley wasn't pleasedwith me for leaving the club, but I couldn't stop thinking about Holland. I needed to figure out what the hell was going on, and I was willing to risk it all.
As I approached her bungalow-style home, darkness shrouded the area. I expertly scaled her tall privacy fence and landed softly on the other side.
I crept toward the back of the house, my pulse hammering with adrenaline against my wrist. Looking around, I scanned the area for any signs of life in the eerily quiet neighborhood. The back entrance loomed ahead, taunting me with its familiarity from the countless images I had studied online. With steady fingers, I expertly picked the lock and pushed open the door, holding my breath as it gave a loud creak. Every nerve in my body was on high alert as I cautiously stepped inside, ready to confront her at any moment.
I listened intently for any noise—a TV playing, music, or voices talking—but there was only silence. With a sense of urgency, I walked into the kitchen, noting the immaculate countertops that gleamed under the moonlight filtering in through the windows.
“Who are you really, Holland Alder?”
Cautiously, I made my way through the home, noting the guest bedroom seemed untouched as did the hall bathroom. Her place lacked a personal touch, appearing as clinical as I assumed she was when she practiced her profession.
I arrived at her bedroom and hesitated before peeking inside, finding it unoccupied. The bed was neatly made with a light peach comforter and coordinating throw pillows, meticulously arranged against the large ones she slept on. My gaze wandered to a tall, dark dresser against the wall, where several picture frames caught my attention. As I moved closer, my focus settled on a photo of two young girls. The younger one seemed to be glaring at a taller girl who looked astonishingly like her, though clearly older.
I felt a twinge of confusion, caught in a tug-of-war between the comfort of the familiar picture and the unsettling anxiety that churned deep within my gut.
Is the older girl in the image the one I saw in the car? If so, then everything is true and you’re a sick motherfucker.
“Do you have a sister?” I reached for the picture, examining it more closely. The resemblance of the older girl was strong enough to deepen my doubts, and I found myself truly questioning who I’d seen in the Mercedes. Was this the right girl, or could I be standing in her sister’s house? The uncertainty gnawed at me, leaving me caught between my instincts and the nagging possibility that I might be mistaken.
My mind was spinning with different possibilities and names—Holland; it must be Samantha’s sister's name.
I continued to examine the additional pictures, noticing the girls appeared to be around the same age as they were in the first image.
This wasn’t adding up. Anger roared to life in the pit of my stomach. I’d gone through enough hell. All I needed was agoddamn yes or no about her identity. I didn’t have time to deal with this shit.
The high-pitched squeak of hinges swinging open pierced the silence and reached my ears, sending a jolt ofhurry the fuck upthrough me. I needed to get out of there and fast. The rhythmic, deliberate sound of approaching footsteps echoed in the hall, each step growing louder and closer, telling me that I didn’t have time to get away.Fuck!
