The Night in Question

“Okay. Thanks.” She clicked off, and headed for the bathroom to finally shower.

Very careful not to get her bandages wet—not an easy task by the way—Kresley enjoyed the feeling of the water pouring down on her. She was salty, sandy and sticky. And scared. The salt and sand washed off. The scared did not.

Knowing her name didn’t mean she knew who she was. But at least it had given her something to focus on other than what might have happened out in the ocean. Though she was grateful to Matt and Gabe for their protection, she wondered if it was enough.

Going into the living room, she picked up the photo of Janice and herself at the beach. It was fairly recent; her own hair was the same length. Carefully, she slipped the photo out of the frame and stuck between the photo and the cardboard backing was a small slip of paper with a phone number.

She stopped toweling her hair dry and dialed the number. It rang six times, then went to voice mail. Unfortunately it was one of those pre-recorded voicemail announcements and not personalized. “Hi, this—” she started, then snapped the phone shut. What if the number belonged to whomever it was who’d tried to kill her? Maybe he wouldn’t recognize her voice in the two syllables.

“Maybe you need to get a grip,” Kresley told herself as she went around the apartment checking every lock.

She dried her hair, applied some makeup and managed to contort enough to dress in a green sleeveless, ruffled-neck blouse and white capris. Going back to the computer, she entered her birth date as a possible password. She was rewarded with a bright red error screen. Kresley tried her birth date backward. Another red error screen. Then just for the heck of it, she tried the ten digits she’d found hidden beneath the frame. Bingo she was in. Sort of.

There were several file folders in the computer, and many of those led to subfolders. The Gianni folder was the only name she recognized. The main folder contained five subfolders. Janice, Emma, Paula, Abby and Kresley. Unfortunately, no matter what she tried, the computer wouldn’t let her open any of the files.

Giving up, she went to the Internet and typed in the telephone number that had gotten her into the computer. It wasn’t listed on any of the public sites. Then she searched for herself and found her cell phone number. Writing it on a small piece of paper, she hit the redial number on the phone and again had it automatically connect her with Gabe Langston.

“Langston.”

“Hi, it’s Kresley. Any luck finding my bank or cell company?”

He rattled off account numbers and the names and addresses of the closest branches and stores. “You own a lime-green VW Beetle,” he added. “Is it there?”

Kresley peeked out of the drawn drapes. “No.”

“I’ll have someone check the parking lot at the docks.”

“I’ve found a phone number and some names. Is there any way—”

“Read them off.”

Kresley did as he asked and in a matter of seconds, he had the names of her roommates. Emma Rooper, Abby Howell and Janice Cross. Only Paula remained unidentified.

“That’s interesting.”

“What?”

“Janice Cross. That’s the woman in the photo that Matt was so interested in learning more about.”

KRESLEY FIGURED her landlady would be a lot more accommodating if she showed up with the back rent. She was glad Gabe had warned her about her thick-necked shadow because he stuck to her like glue as she walked the block and a half to her bank.

She was a lefty with a bandaged left hand and unfortunately the withdrawal slip required her signature. If they asked for ID, she was toast. If she had to guess, her identification was somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic. The best she could muster was an old expired driver’s license she’d found in her panty drawer.

A thin sheen of perspiration covered her as she waited in the orderly line, created by burgundy velvet ropes. The entire time, she prayed silently. Prayed that she had enough money. Prayed that she wouldn’t get snagged by lack of identification.

A year later—okay, it just felt that long—Kresley stepped up to the available teller. “Hi, I’m—”

“Kresley! What happened to your hand?” the young brunette woman with the cheery smile asked.

“Um, accident with a knife,” she said as she slid the withdrawal slip across the veneered counter.

“You should be more careful….”

Kresley tuned her out, not to be rude but because she was relieved at not being interrogated. She’d been so terrified of not being able to answer questions, she’d actually written her address and birth date on the palm of her good hand.

“Here you go,” the teller said with a wave and a broad grin. “One money order, a receipt and a hundred dollars.” The teller set them out as if dealing a hand of cards.

“Thank you,” Kresley said, sticking it all inside her empty purse and stepping away from the window.

Her next stop was the phone store where she bought a cell phone. Then, as the sun was setting, she walked the short distance back to her apartment complex, in search of her landlady. She knocked on the door and the landlady yelled to come in. She’d supplemented her central air conditioning with a large window unit that made a strained rattling sound. Her apartment was the same floor plan as Kresley’s, though instead of a living room, she had it set up as an office.

“What now?”

“I brought back your phone and I want to clear up my back rent.” She reached into her purse and handed over the money order.

Scowling, the woman pursed lips that were poorly outlined in an unnatural orange-brown. “I’ve been hounding you for months. How come you can pay now?”

“Does it matter?” Kresley asked.

The woman shrugged and her dull brown eyes narrowed. “Need something else?”

“I want a copy of the rental agreement and background checks on me and my roommates if possible.”

“Sure,” the landlady shrugged and rolled a cheap office chair over to the filing cabinets and took out a file marked 1B. She rolled over to a copy machine, managing to do everything without ever leaving her chair. Kresley thanked her.

Her response was, “Yeah, well, just remember next month’s rent is due in sixteen days.”

Returning to her apartment, Kresley heard a car pulling into the lot. The sound spooked her, so she jerked her head to see if it was her thick-necked bodyguard.

It was Matt’s Jeep.

“Before you get mad,” he began before he even cut the engine. “I’m here on Kendall’s orders. She said with the concussion someone should check on you. I’m just—” Matt stopped in mid-sentence to answer his cell. “DeMarco.”

“It’s Gabe. The Coast Guard just found the Carolina Moon.”

“And?”

“Lots of blood and lots of bodies.”

“Janice?”

“Sorry, all I got from my contact was two female victims and three male victims.”

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