He thought about warning them away, asking them to take him to their mother so he could talk to her – but he had a feeling that would be a waste. The kids were obviously comfortable here. Nothing he said was going to change their way of life.
Instead, Finn jogged up the stairs, not stopping until he was on the third floor. He walked down the dreary hallway, wrinkling his nose as he took in the aged wallpaper – with big, gaping holes in some places – not stopping until he reached the last apartment on the floor: 10-C.
Finn raised his hand to knock, momentarily wondering if he should just turn tail and run rather than face the wrath of the woman on the other side of the door. His fist was pounding at the hollow wood before he had time to change his mind.
He could hear shuffling on the other side of the door, even sensing her presence as she peered through the peephole. He almost believed he heard a sigh before the sounds of four different locks disengaging met his ears. In this neighborhood, it was a wonder she didn’t need eight locks to feel safe.
When Emma opened the door, dressed only in a pair of shapeless jogging pants and a tank top, her face was blank and unreadable. Finn didn’t take that as a good sign. “Good morning,” he said brightly.
“Is there anything good about a morning?” Emma deadpanned.
Finn smiled. “I thought I would come and tell you that we checked up on the man who brought you the letter yesterday.” Finn didn’t expand further, waiting for her to invite him in.
Emma knew what he was hoping for – and she was clearly uncertain. Finally, she opened the door further and ushered Finn inside.
Despite the rundown exterior (and interior, for that matter) of the building, Emma’s apartment was both clean and homey. The hardwood floors had been buffed and varnished, and the furniture – while clearly not new – was also not cheap and filthy.
“You didn’t have to come here to tell me that,” Emma said. “I never thought he was a freak. He obviously wasn’t the same guy with the acid from Saturday.”
“No,” Finn agreed, perching on the edge of her couch nervously. “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.”
“What was he going to do? Attack me with the letter? Try to kill me with paper cuts?”
Finn rolled his neck, cracking it. “Are you always so sarcastic?”
“Are you scared of a little sarcasm? Because, if so, you’re probably going to want to steer clear of me,” Emma said. “That’s how I survive. It’s not nice. It’s not pretty. Nothing in my life is nice or pretty, though, so it actually fits.”
She was like a wounded animal in a trap, Finn realized, always snapping out at those who were actively trying to help her. He tried not to take it personally. “The man’s name is Charles Evans. Do you know him?”
Emma flattened her lips as she thought. “That name does sound familiar. He was one of my father’s victims, wasn’t he?”
“I’m not a hundred-percent sure yet,” Finn admitted. “A woman I know is checking the file at the courthouse – she works in Judge MacIntosh’s court. I’m pretty sure. Charles Evans lived on the same street in Eastpointe you guys did twelve years ago.”
Emma sighed, the sound sad, her pain inescapable. “Well, that’s good enough for me.”
“Did you read the letter?” Finn asked.
“I did.”
“What did it say?”
“It said that he hopes I burn in Hell,” Emma said. “I’ve gotten a good twenty of them over the past few months. I think I’ll just add it to my collection. I’m thinking of making a collage out of them. I think some art would really brighten up the place.”
Finn swallowed his upper lip with his lower one, swiveling his head so he could look around the apartment. It was small – a studio with a tiny living area, an even tinier kitchen, and a bed and dresser elevated a step up to the far left of the living space. Finn’s eyes were drawn to a picture frame on the dresser. He couldn’t see the tiny details, but the photograph clearly showed a teenage Emma with a woman who – in her younger days – probably bore a striking resemblance to the pretty model.
“Is that your mom?”
“That’s her,” Emma replied, her tone blithe. “That was about six months before the shit hit the fan – and about seven months before she took off and never looked back.”
“If you’re so bitter, why do you have it up on your dresser?”
“Honestly? It’s the only photograph I have of her,” Emma said. “She burned the rest before she left. I keep it to remember a happier time – whatever that is.”