Page 22 of Promise of Destruction (Destruction & Vengeance Duet #1)

twenty-two

Declan

I swirl the bourbon in my glass as I watch Soren pull the blanket tighter over her head. I’m deep into my second drink and getting more agitated by the moment.

When I called the realtor this morning, she’d been more than happy to convince her sellers to accommodate my request. They weren’t living there, so it wouldn’t be an intrusion on their privacy.

It was reasonable to want to see if the neighborhood was safe, after all.

There had been a murder across the street a year ago and nobody had ever been reprimanded for it.

“Domestic dispute, I believe.” The realtor—Janine—said confidently.

“I think his wife killed him because he beat her. The neighbors all said they never heard any signs of an issue before that night, but the evidence speaks for itself. They all say she’s harmless, that she worshipped the ground he walked on.

Poor girl just snapped, I guess. It was a truly isolated incident that’s hardly enough of a reason to stop you from moving in. ”

I wanted to press her for more details, but I couldn’t risk setting off any alarm bells so I hesitated and then told her I just wasn’t comfortable moving my family to a neighborhood with such a recently bloody history.

Janine took the bait, assuring me that the neighborhood was really quite quiet outside of that one time.

I hesitated again before asking if I could possibly install some surveillance and monitor it for a while before making a commitment.

“They’re really not obstructive these days.” She agreed quickly. “It wouldn’t be hard to install some and keep an eye out from your phone to be sure nothing trips the system. If we get any interest in the meantime, I will get in touch with you right away.”

She didn’t bother saying what we both knew—that the house wouldn’t be getting any other interest.

The owners had moved out just a few weeks after Soren was released from the hospital, and it had been sitting on the MLS for almost three hundred days.

It’s over-priced because the economy is in the toilet and they owe more than they can sell it for.

The owners are between a rock and a hard place, and probably desperate.

Which is why I’m not even a little surprised when she called back ten minutes later to give me the greenlight.

I passed the proverbial torch to Alonzo for all further communication, and had a text on my phone by noon stating that the cameras had been installed successfully.

It’s a wonder that Soren hasn’t boarded all her windows yet, let alone that she doesn’t even bother to draw the curtains.

Working in cyber communications has its perks, the best of which is probably the unrestricted access I have to military-grade surveillance cameras. Three well-aimed cameras and her refusal to close her curtains, and I’ve got a perfect view of her everywhere but the bathroom and her backyard.

It’s all just as well. I saw her from the other side of a double-paned window. I know what she does in that bathroom, and watching it on camera would pale in comparison.

Unfortunately, Soren Palmer isn’t as exciting tonight. She lays on her bed for a long time like she’s attempting to get some sleep despite the fact that she didn’t dress for bed. When she finally gets up, it’s to go the bathroom.

The camera reaches as far as it can before it’s out of range.

I wait patiently, clicking through unread emails while I wait for her to re-appear.

After ten minutes, I’m starting to wonder if she fell in the toilet. I already know she showered earlier because I saw her come out of the bathroom clutching her towel against her chest.

After twenty minutes, I think maybe she is taking another shower or a bath; She certainly seemed vexed and probably needs to burn off some frustration.

At the end of thirty minutes, I close the surveillance app and stare at my phone, debating the move I’m about to make.

It’s another five minutes before I hit the ‘call’ button on her name.

I saved it at the office this morning, but she probably won’t recognize my number.

“You’ve reached Soren. If you want me to get back to you, leave me your name and number and I will… if I ever check my voicemail.” Her laugh is cut off by the beep that prompts me to leave a message.

I didn’t expect her to answer, but I also didn’t expect to leave a voicemail. I hang up, deciding to text her instead.

Me: What are you doing?

I wait a moment for the message to be delivered, and it switches shortly after to read . I laugh.

Predictable.

Soren: Who is this?

I have a dozen responses for that, none of which I can risk putting in writing.

She’ll figure it out eventually. I didn’t text her to start a conversation when I could be watching her. I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t bleeding out in the bathtub.

Apparently, she’s got a history of that.

I close out the text message and return to the view of the camera in time to see a car pull into the driveway. My fingers are already closing around the keys in my pocket when I notice the text on the side of the car.

The police officer who gets out of the driver’s side of the squad car is tall but lanky—nothing about him says that he’s a threat, but I’m not taking a chance. Abandoning my keys, I rush through the house to my study.

I do all of my work from my home, whether stationary or mobile. Most things I do these days can be accomplished just as easily on my cell, but I want the clearest shot I can get.

A tap on the mouse track is all it takes to wake the wall of screens stationed above my desk.

I type the address of the neighbors house into the search bar and each of the camera feeds comes to life on one of the screens.

The officer is still making his way to the porch slowly, looking all around as if he’s expecting someone to jump out at him from the bushes.

The other two cameras, pointed into her bedroom and the living room/kitchen, show no people.

Me: You have a guest in 3…2…

My message shows read, and five seconds later I watch the officer lift a hand to knock on the front door.

He turns to look nervously around; That’s the moment I take advantage of the screen capture.

A yellow box appears around his face, blurry and grainy at first. It only takes a moment for the system to zoom and enhance his features unprompted.

A single keystroke is all it takes for the system to start running through its database.

The second box that opens next to the first starts rapid-fire spitting out images of people—headshots, mugshots, and selfies alike, scanning the index for any features that coincide with the officer’s.

Movement on one of the cameras catches my eye.

Looking up at the screen, I see Soren standing on the tips of her toes, trying to crane her neck to see her front porch from there. She’s dressed now in a robe that matches her towel.

She’s clearly nervous. Probably thinks that whoever’s texting her is the same person knocking on her door, trying to lure her out to them.

I didn’t have her house mic’d yet, and we’re too far from the neighbor’s home for the cameras to pick up any audio other than the occasional passing car.

These damn cameras can spot a fly on a leaf blowing in the wind, but they’re useless for hearing anything.

When I’d initially told Collins to get the cameras set up, he had warned me the audio wouldn’t have the capability I would likely need.

Since I was in a bit of a rush to get them installed, I simply told him that we’d order an audio enhancer if we needed. I hadn’t expected to need it.

Did she call them herself? Maybe she wants to report the incident from last night.

Soren is just stepping away from the window, drawing the robe tighter around herself, when the computer pings in front of me. I turn my attention to the Illinois driver’s license that best matches my screen capture of his face.

Officer Cody Barnes of the Covington P.D.

Born January 3 rd , 1999.

He’s just a baby, but that means nothing if he’s mixed up with the wrong people.

I check the list of known associates to see if any of them stick out, but it seems to be mostly family—Carol Barnes, Richard Barnes, and Becky Gillum, married to Noah Gillum.

They live in the suburbs, and not one of them has so much as a speeding ticket notice in public record, though I do see a citation for a broken tail-light on Noah’s 2014 Camry.

Cody Barnes doesn’t set off any alarm bells, but I watch him carefully as Soren opens the door. It’s just a crack—enough for her to poke her head tentatively through to see who’s waiting on the porch for her. She relaxes at first when she recognizes the uniform and then tenses again.

Her lips move, but I’m not a goddamn lip reader.

Soren opens the door a bit more, giving the officer a better view of the empty inside of her home.

And then I don’t care if Cody Barnes is a fucking boy scout, because Soren just answered the door in her fucking robe.