Page 7 of Skin Game
Twisting the key, Gabe was rewarded with a satisfying pop and release of the lock. The back door opened surprisingly easily considering the state of the one at the front. Gabe stepped inside, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, then got his first glance—and whiff—of the kitchen and regretted it, slapping a hand over his mouth and nose.
“Jesus Christ,” he repeated.
The stench was literally eye-watering. The grubby linoleum floor was close to impassable, and not only because of cardboard boxes stuffed to bursting with empty and partially empty takeout containers and other paraphernalia. Cabinet doors gaped open, and broken glasses and cutlery were strewn across the flooring.
“No fucking wonder he liked Hero’s place better.”
Gabe couldn’t bring himself to shut the door to the outside, not with the rancid smell of unidentifiables lingering in the air. His gut told him to find the locket and get the hell out of there.
With care, Gabe stepped around the scattered remains andheaded for a short hallway across from where he’d entered. He had studied the floor plan sketched out by Hero and was pretty sure the downstairs bathroom was midway down the hall and near the bottom of a staircase that led up to the second floor. He fucking hoped that was as far as he had to go.
The reek did not lessen when he left the kitchen.
As he approached where the bathroom was supposed to be—tiptoeing, for fuck’s sake—he passed a gallery of Witherspoon family mug shots, nearly knocking one of them off the wall with his shoulder. The snapshots were protected by cheap-ass frames and plexiglass. They hung at jarring angles because the hallway was narrow and no one of adult height would miss bumping against them.
Out of habit, Gabe paused to straighten them. And judged each one. The Witherspoon family had stopped memorializing themselves when Randy looked to be ten or so. At the time, he did not look pleased to be clutching the hand of a genderless blob of a toddler. The toddler’s face was red and scrunched up in mid-scream.
“That haircut was the beginning of the end,” Gabe said to Randy’s face before moving into the bathroom.
Unsurprisingly, the small room was filthy, equally as bad as the kitchen but in a different way. How could Randy live like this? How could Hero stay here? It seemed like she would have said something about the state of things, but maybe this had happened after she’d left. He accidentally inhaled a waft of stench, and Gabe’s stomach churned. Holding his breath again, he glanced quickly around the small room, which was enough to tell him there was no locket hanging on the mirror.
You should’ve known it wouldn’t be so easy, Chance.
Pulling open the top drawer underneath the shallow sink, Gabe regretfully breathed in a sigh of relief, nearly coughing on the inhale. There, tangled in with dental floss samples, a razor, a black hair comb, and Band-Aids in rarely needed sizes andshapes, sparkled the necklace. Scooping it up, Gabe stuffed the piece of jewelry into his pocket and stepped back into the hallway.
That was when the distinct sound of a key turning and the subsequent click of a lock opening reached his ears.
Gabe froze.
Shit.
The front door creaked open, and Gabe recognized the slope of Randy’s shoulders and the hoodie they were encased in.
Triple shit.
Spinning back the direction he’d come, Gabe abandoned stealth and raced for the still open back door. He’d never known if there was a patron saint for ex-grifters, but in that moment Gabe decided there had to be, and he prayed to them loud and hard.
“Hey! Stop, you asshole!”
Gabe did not stop. He raced through the kitchen and out the door he’d fortunately had the forethought to leave open. Behind him, he heard Randy’s heavy footfalls. It seemed like they were gaining ground. Why was he always being chased?
“I’m gonna kill you,” Randy shouted, thundering after him.
“Was it something I said?” Gabe yelled over his shoulder as he took off toward the side of the house. The grass was wet, and the mist had returned. He slipped and had difficulty finding purchase but made it through the gate.
Fucking Mondays.
THREE
CASEY – MONDAY AFTERNOON
“Casey, it’s time for some Greta Real Talk.”
Casey groaned and almost swore. Real Talk was an irritating hobby of his coworker’s. He wished she’d get off her butt and start that podcast she kept talking about instead of practicing her underutilized psychology minor on him.
“Look,” Greta began, “you’re worried about Mickie, I get it. But maybe stop envisioning what you think he’s up to and have a talk with him. Get to know your brother.”
It was proving hard not to worry about his brother after nearly twenty years of wondering when the call would come that something terrible had happened to Mickie, something worse than being sent to prison. But Casey didn’t say that; he just plastered a bland expression on his face.