Dying by the Hour (A Jesse Sullivan Novel Book 2) by Kory M. Shrum Page A

I want you to go see Gloria, all right?” he says. “She knows what our next move should be. I’ll check back with you once I get the hard drive open.”
    When I don’t move, he adds: “Go on.”
    Some things never change. We almost die together and he still treats me like that seventeen year old kid he rescued years ago. But maybe I’ve changed. Because instead of arguing, I give a little salute, turn on my heels, and head home.

Ally
     
     
    T his particular apartment is only a small unit inside a massive complex. But from what I can tell there are no other businesses in this building and even this space has an artificial name on the bills. Jeremiah opens the back door for us with his key.
    In the apartment’s main room, a large wall of monitors is responsible for recording all of the various angles surrounding the building. It’s Parish who works security today. He’s a round guy, more round than muscle. He has a McDonald’s soda cup in one fist and a crumpled sandwich wrapper in the other. A section of his belly is exposed between his pants and shirt as he stretches back in the swivel chair. He has little flecks of food in his beard. I make a motion with my hand to indicate they’re there.
    “I’m saving those for later,” he says but then he shakes himself like a dog.
    “Eyes on the screen,” Jeremiah says. He’s wearing the same dark clothes and appears as the antithesis to Parish’s sloppiness with his clean fingernails and trimmed goatee.
    Jeremiah leads us in a staccato step toward the back of the apartment. Nikki and I follow past a room with walls covered in corkboard with pictures and strings connecting the images. We call it the storyboard room where we map out our search and rescue strategies.
    I want everyone to come into the digital age but Jeremiah insists we keep everything hard—actual files and photos, written notes and all that. He says these can be controlled and destroyed while digital files can be hacked and accessed from anywhere. It’s why he only allows the computer monitors in one room, if they’re hacked all they will see is Parish lounging.
    The office is completely devoid of any kind of interior design: no rugs, curtains, pictures or certificates to indicate what kind of office this is supposed to be. The hallway is dark except for a plain bulb overhead.
    He stops and looks through a glass window. It takes me a second to realize what I’m looking at. I don’t hide my astonishment. “What the hell happened to her?”
    First of all I didn’t realize we even had a room at the end of this hallway, let alone with one with a large plane of glass allowing us to see the woman inside.
    Her face is swollen, especially blue and puffy on one side. Blood has dried all down her shirt front, and is crusting at the collarbone.
    I grab the door handle intending to go inside and help her. Jeremiah grabs my upper arm in a way that instantly angers me. I shrug hard and he’s forced to let go of me and to regain a step he lost. Nikki, for the briefest of moments, places a hand lightly on my back as if to steady me—or reassure me.
    “She is not a victim,” he says calmly. “We are interrogating her.”
    I look at her again, at the swollen face, the soft heaving of her chest and the red mangled skin of her wrists, irritated by the cuffs chaining her to the metal chair.
    “How long as she been like this?” I ask.
    “We brought her in last night,” he answers.
    After he spoke to me at the hospital.
    “You’ve been hurting her?” I ask. Because I can’t imagine Parish doing so. Not unless someone else is in town. A lot of people come and go.
    Jeremiah doesn’t answer.
    The rage inside me burns and blisters. I shove past both Jeremiah and Nikki and storm toward the front of the building. I have to get out of here before I hurt someone myself.
    Someone grabs my wrist and I turn. I yank my wrist away. She is hardly deterred. She grabs me again and pulls me into the storyboard