She disappeared inside before I could finish the question.
With a sigh, I moved closer to the door so she could shove it open for me, which she did a second later, almost clipping me in the face.
“I hope there isn't an alarm,” I said.
“Here?” she asked incredulously. “Please. Like anyone would
“He took everything with him,” I pointed out. “He was packing up to leave town, remember?”
She shook her head mockingly. “How would you survive without me?”
I stiffened.
She grimaced and waved the words away. “Never mind.…I didn't mean…” She took a deep breath and flipped her hair back behind her shoulders, a pale gleam of gold in the dim light. “People are never good about getting rid of everything. Tamara Lindt got outed on that thing with the student teacher because she lent her phone to someone without deleting all the evidence.”
Tamara Lindt. That had been a scandal from way back in sophomore year. Even I'd been aware of it, which was saying something. She and this slimy d-bag college senior on assignment from EIU had had a thing in the equipment room… during school lunches. He'd been using her, from what I'd heard afterward, while “dating” several other girls on campus at the same time. Someone started a rumor that spread like, well, a juicy rumor, and it eventually got him kicked out of school, ours and his. Tamara had never seemed particularly grateful, but she wasn't spectacularly bright, as I recalled. The biggest question had always been who had found out and how.
Huh. “Text messages?” I guessed.
Alona grinned. “Left herself logged in to Facebook. Her inbox was full of his sleaze.”
I knew it.
She moved deeper into the room, fumbling for the light switch and waiting for me to catch up so she could turn it on. “We'll find something. Trust me.”
But Edmund, if that was his name, was much better than Tamara “Daddy Issues” Lindt, because he'd taken every scrap of paper with him. Even the garbage cans were empty. Probably a wise choice when running a semiscam.
Except for a disturbingly wrinkled apple in the mini-fridge, there was no sign that anyone had even been here recently.
“Here,” Alona called faintly from the waiting room.
I poked my head through the door to find her crouching next to a stack of chairs. “What?” I asked.
“The chairs and stuff are rented.” She pointed at something on the bottom of a chair. “There's a label with a company name and phone number.”
“So?”
She stood up. “So,” she said with exaggerated patience, “you need information about Malachi, like his real name. They'll have it with his credit card info. Unless he's running that kind of scam, too.” She frowned. “Let's hope not.”
“And how do you suggest we get that information? Break in? We don't even know where that place is!” I did not especially treasure the idea of spending the rest of the day finding this place and then waiting for everyone to leave so we could get in, while Erin ran around town doing whatever she wanted.
“We could,” she said with a shrug. “But calling and asking them is a lot easier.”
“They're not just going to give us his personal information,” I said in disbelief.
“Phone. Gimme.” She held her hand out.
“They're not going to be able to hear you,” I reminded her. I crossed the room, digging my phone from my pocket.
She pursed her lips. “This would be so much easier if I could do this myself.” She scowled at me and she flickered. Her edges went soft for a second, and I could almost see through her.
I caught my breath. “Alona…”
Her eyes snapped shut, and she furrowed her brow in concentration, murmuring positive comments in a whisper I could barely hear, let alone understand.
But apparently it was the thought that counted and not the volume, because after a second, she stabilized, becoming fully solid once again.
“Are you all right? Do you need me to—”
She shook her head and held up her hand to cut me off.
Okay, evidently we weren't discussing this issue.
After taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders. Then she snatched the phone from my hand, consulted the number on the bottom of the chair, and started dialing. “Call them and say…” She paused, clearly thinking. “Tell them you're the landlord and all this furniture is supposed to be cleared out. You need the tenant's contact information, all of it. And if you can't get ahold of him, or someone's not over here in the next ten minutes, you're going to throw it all out.”
And we had to hope the rental place was farther than ten minutes away, I supposed. “Wait. If I'm the landlord, why wouldn't I have his contact information already?”
But it was too late. She shoved the phone into my hand, and it was ringing.
I glared at her.
“They're not going to think that far ahead,” she said quickly. “And if they do, hang up.”
“Remember how much you hate the idea of jail and germs,” I said in a low tone.
