Page 80 of Omega's Fever

Milo will probably try something desperate. It’s who he is. But it won’t matter. The deal is made. Papers signed. Cobb gets his fall guy, and my family gets to live.

24

Milo

The laptop sits open on my dining table, Kellen’s search history on display. My hands shake as I click through the links he visited while we were at the office. Finally—there. A Facebook profile for someone named Penny, no last name, profile picture of a dog on an orange sofa.

This is her. She told Kellen something that made him throw away his freedom.

I study the screen, trying to glean any information from the sparse profile. The privacy settings are locked down tight—no photos of people, no personal information visible. Just that dog on the orange sofa and a header image of a generic sunset. But Kellen had spent several minutes on this page. He’d found what he was looking for.

I follow his crumbs. He’s searched senior care homes downtown, looking at maps and searching names. The last place is called Sunrise Senior Care. The website loads slowly, the photo on the main page shows a building that looks in far better condition than the one on google maps. The staff page doesn’t list individual employees, but the contact section gives me the address.

My phone buzzes. Anne. Again. That makes six calls since I didn’t show up at the office this morning. I let it go to voicemail, already grabbing my coat. By now she’s probably drafting my termination letter. Good. Let her. None of it matters and I have had enough of her bullshit. I can’t believe I once idolized her.

The drive downtown takes forty minutes in late morningtraffic. This part of the city feels forgotten. I drive past check-cashing places next to boarded-up shops, liquor stores with barred windows.

I find the nursing home but I circle the block twice, trying to get a feel for the area. There’s a bus stop out front where a few elderly people wait on a bench that’s seen better decades. An empty lot next door grows weeds through cracked asphalt. Across the street, a strip of businesses clings to life: a nail salon with sun-faded photos in the window, a tax preparation office that’s probably only open three months a year, and a diner that looks like it’s been there since the fifties.

The sign on the diner is chipped and peeling, but the lights are on and through the window I can see customers at the counter. More importantly, I can see clear sightlines to the nursing home’s employee entrance.

I park in the small lot beside the coffee shop, between a rusted pickup truck and a Honda that’s been there long enough that all four tires are flat. My BMW looks obscene here, obviously out of place but there’s nowhere else to leave it.

The diner door sticks when I push it, then gives way with a grunt. A bell jangles overhead, the sound harsh and metallic.

“Sit anywhere, hon.” The waitress looks about sixty, with hair dyed an aggressive shade of red. She doesn’t look up from refilling coffee cups along the counter.

I choose a booth by the window, the vinyl creaking as I slide in. The table is sticky despite obvious recent wiping. A laminated menu offers the kind of food cardiologists have nightmares about. Everything is fried, covered in gravy, or both.

“Coffee?” Dolores appears at my elbow, pot already poised.

“Tea, please. Chamomile if you have it.”

She gives me a look that suggests I’ve asked for champagne and caviar. “We got Lipton.”

“That’s fine.”

She shuffles off, returning with a mug of hot water and a tea bag that’s seen better days. The tag reads “Orange Pekoe.” Close enough.

“You eating?” She pulls out an order pad that might be older than I am.

“Just the tea, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” She leaves the check on the table, already totaled. Two dollars for hot water and a dubious tea bag.

I settle in to watch, pulling out the only photo I have of Penelope Evans, one that came in the case file. The image is grainy and unclear: dark haired woman, early thirties maybe. The quality is terrible—it could be anyone. But it’s all I have.

I smooth the photo on the sticky table, willing it to become clearer through sheer determination. Penelope Evans. Former dancer at The Pit. One of the few witnesses who refused to testify against Kellen. She’d told the police “no comment” to every question except confirming she knew him. That kind of loyalty in Cobb Sewell’s world usually ended badly.

My phone buzzes again. Anne. I flip it face down on the table.

I nurse the terrible tea and watch the nursing home entrance. A few employees come and go—smoking breaks, probably—but none match the woman in the photo.

Dolores refills my hot water without being asked, bringing fresh tea bags that are actual chamomile this time. “You want some crackers or something? You’re looking a little green.”

Morning sickness chooses that moment to surge. I breathe through my nose, willing it back. “Crackers would be great.”

She returns with a sleeve of saltines and, surprisingly, a small cup of ginger ale. “On the house. Got three kids myself. I know the look.”