Spiders in a Dark Web by Emily Senecal

Author:Emily Senecal [Senecal, Emily]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Emily Senecal
Published: 2018-12-31T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

I only had time to feel a kind of sickened shock—both at seeing her and at her reaction—before I felt Peter tug at my elbow.

“She wants us to follow her,” he said in my ear, and I noticed that Marianne, rather than disappearing back into the building, was standing in the doorway beckoning urgently. We hurried inside after her, and she closed and locked the door with a rush, shutting the three of us into musty darkness. Dim light filtered down from an upper story, showing us the stairwell leading up.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she hissed, starting up the stairs. We followed.

“Looking for you,” I said, my mind still unable to fully take in what was happening.

“Of all the idiotic…” I heard her mutter as she led us up.

We continued all the way to the third floor, where she unlocked and opened a door at the back of the hallway. It was a dingy little room, bare of furniture except a camping-style cot made up with sheets and a blanket and pillow, a desk, a chair and, incongruously, a mini-fridge. One corner held a rack of clothes, dark lumps of shoes below. The only source of light was the single dusty window, the daylight diffused through a yellow shade. Marianne closed and locked the door behind us, then crossed over and switched on a low desk lamp, throwing her heavy bag down on the floor.

“How’d you find me?” she demanded, turning to glare at us.

“Michael Sorenson,” Peter said, after it was clear I wasn’t capable of answering. “He remembered the postcard you sent. And the fact that Lola knew you worked at a travel agency. This address is listed for Pegasus Destinations.”

“Great. Just fantastic. And who the fuck are you?”

I woke up.

“This is Peter—Owen. He’s my—he’s been helping me.”

She eyed us, then abruptly sat down in the chair and lit a cigarette. No wonder the room smelled so stale and sticky.

Marianne didn’t smoke. But this woman was Marianne—a tired, pale, thin Marianne with the same drawn, worried look she’d worn in my apartment a few weeks ago. Her long sweep of dark brown hair, her sparkling brown eyes, her features too sharply defined to be beautiful, but so vivacious you didn’t really notice, all as familiar to me as my own. And she was undoubtedly smoking.

“Sit,” she said, waving at the cot. We sat. “You’re telling me that toxic joke actually remembered the postcard I sent when I left? What rock did you find him under, anyway?”

“Rikers,” Peter said briefly.

“Hmph. I should’ve guessed.” She smoked furiously for a moment while we waited. I took in her clothes: tailored jeans, white shirt, high boots, light khaki jacket. She looked elegant and fashionable. An elegant, fashionable stranger who smoked. “What else did he say?”

“He remembered about the man who came to see you—an older man in a suit—right before you left. Not his name, just what he said about your time being up, something like that.”

“Mm. How’d you track down Mike?”

“Richard Napoletti—his landlord in Newark.

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