Shadow Memories: A Novel (The Singularity Conspiracy Book 1) by Nicholas Erik Page A

A heirloom from her father; the only thing she had from him.
    It was an animal formed of clay or terra cotta, crude. That ugly piece of crap from the shelf that passed for interior decoration. I could never tell whether the thing was supposed to be a dog or a giraffe, but the couple times I’d brought up the lack of artisan craftsmanship, I was met with a cold look and a long dry spell. So I’d dropped it.
    Why Manny or Otto wanted it, well, that was a goddamn puzzler. It sure as hell wasn’t worth anything.
    I slipped the figurine into my pocket and told Fox to stand guard. He seemed to kind of understand—in that he didn’t try to follow me through the door.
    Stairs, leading down into darkness. I tightened my grip on the utility knife and stepped down.
    The things I did to make a living, right?

19
    Long Hallways
    After feeling my way down the stairs using the faux-wood paneling as a makeshift guide, I felt my sneakers hit unfinished concrete. Old Manny, he wasn’t rolling out the red carpet for his guests, that was for damn sure.
    From the dim light emanating from underneath the doors, I could see that the basement was one long hallway—dingy and miserable, like I’d just entered the Matrix. No sound, which didn’t make me jump for joy. I think it would have been preferable if I’d heard screams, or any sign of human life.
    This was just creepy.
    Nonetheless, my feet moved forward. The first door was about ten feet away, a faint TV-like glow streaming from underneath. I placed my hand on the knob and turned.
    Storage. Old junk piled high, the scene illuminated by a flickering bulb that looked less than a single watt. I sighed and shut the door. The story was much the same for the other doors: overstock, junk, although some of it looked good, sellable even. Antiques—the type that art collectors might like.
    While I’d found sufficient evidence that Manny was a terrible businessman—or a hoarder—I still hadn’t found any sign of where Otto and Clarissa had gone. I wasn’t kidding when I said the hall was long. It ran longer than the entire store, and then some.
    The next few doors were locked. I didn’t bother picking them; if the other prospects didn’t pan out, I decided that I could always come back.
    At the very end of the hall, as if this entire lengthy journey were leading to this one point, stood a steel door. It required a keycard; the blinking red light on the reader next to the handle told me that. I tried the handle anyway, feeling lucky.
    Stiff, no give. I crouched down and peered at the locking mechanism. All electronic. I could crack it, given the time and equipment, but I had neither. Plan B needed to be executed.
    I pounded on the steel, utility knife poised to strike with my free hand.
    Otto answered.
    “How the…”
    I waved the knife in his face, and he shut up, putting his hands up. This caused him to drop the towel he was holding over his lower half. Turned out Chuck might get those naked shots, after all.
    Clarissa exited the bathroom, talking to Otto in sultry tones.
    “You ready, baby?” And then she saw me and shrieked. I brandished the blade at her, but this just caused her to whimper and whine louder. I tried a different tack.
    “Shut the hell up.”
    This quieted it down to a muted sob. I think I heard a don’t hurt me or two in there. Otto didn’t have much to say. He was still processing that I was among the living.
    I pulled out the camera and started snapping shots.
    “You should have stayed dead, you know that? We’ll kill you. Kill you both.”
    “Just making an honest living,” I said, pumping the shutter as I wagged the blade at him, “but then, you wouldn’t know anything about that.”
    Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a familiar looking parcel lying on the rumpled sheets. My twenty grand. Now, if I could only figure out why he wanted to kill and rob me over some cave, that’d be great.
    Money first. I snatched it with an indignant swipe of the wrist