Suppressing the bizarre reaction, I flip the page back and read the info on the driver’s license.
Chloe Emmons is twenty-three years old, five-foot-four, and resides in Boston, Massachusetts—which means she’s a long way from home.
“How did she hear about this position?” I ask, glancing up at Alina. “I thought we only placed the ad in the local papers.”
She moves the printouts with the photos aside and taps a glossy red nail on the page underneath. “Read the cover letter.”
I turn my attention to the page. It appears Chloe Emmons is on a post-graduation road trip and just happened to be passing through Elkwood Creek when she saw our ad and decided to apply for the position. The cover letter is well written and neatly formatted, as is the resume that follows. I can see why Alina thought it promising. Though the girl has just received her Bachelor’s in Education Studies from Middlebury College, she’s had more teaching internships and babysitting jobs than the previous three candidates combined.
Konstantin’s report on her is next. As usual, he’s had his team do a deep dive on her social media, criminal and DMV records, financial statements, school transcripts, medical records, and everything else about her life that had been computerized at any point. It’s a longer read, so I look up at Alina. “Any red flags?”
She hesitates. “Maybe. Her mother passed away a month ago—apparent suicide. Since then, Chloe has basically been off the grid: no social media posts, no credit card transactions, no calls on her cell.”
“So she’s either having trouble coping, or something else is going on.”
Alina nods. “My bet is on the first; her mother was the only family she had.”
I shut the folder and push it away. “That doesn’t explain the lack of credit card transactions. Something’s off here. But even if it’s what you think, an emotionally disturbed woman is the last thing we need.”
A humorless smile touches Alina’s jade-green eyes. “Are you sure about that, Kolya? Because I feel like she might fit right in.”
And before I can reply, my sister turns around and walks out.
* * *
I don’t know what makes me pick up the folder again an hour later—morbid curiosity, most likely. Flipping through the thick stack of papers, I find the police report on the mother’s suicide. Apparently, Marianna Emmons, waitress, age forty, was found on her kitchen floor, her wrists slit. It was a neighbor who called it in; the daughter, Chloe, was nowhere to be found—and she never showed up to identify or bury the body.
Interesting. Could pretty little Chloe have offed her mom? Is that why she’s on her off-the-grid “road trip?”
According to the police report, there was no suspicion of foul play. Marianna had a history of depression, and she’d tried to commit suicide once before, when she was sixteen. But I know how easy it is to stage a murder scene if you know what you’re doing.
All it takes is a little foresight and skill.
It’s a leap, of course, but I haven’t gotten where I am by assuming the best about people. Even if Chloe Emmons isn’t guilty of matricide, she’s guilty of something. My instincts are telling me there’s more to her story, and my instincts are rarely wrong.
The girl is trouble. I know it beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Still, something keeps me from closing the folder. I read through Konstantin’s report in its entirety, then go through the screenshots of her social media. Surprisingly, it’s not a lot of selfies; for a girl that pretty, Chloe doesn’t seem overly focused on her looks. Instead, the majority of her posts consist of videos of baby animals and photos of scenic spots, along with links to blog posts and articles about childhood development and optimal teaching methods.
If not for that police report and her month-long disappearance from the grid, Chloe Emmons would appear to be exactly what she claims: a brand-new college grad with a passion for teaching.
Flipping back to the beginning of the folder, I study the photo of her laughing, trying to understand what it is about the girl that intrigues me. Her pretty face, for sure, but that’s only part of it. I’ve seen—and fucked—women far more classically beautiful than she. Even that porn-doll mouth is nothing special in the grand scheme of things, though no man in his right mind would pass up the chance to feel those plump, soft lips wrapped around his cock.
No, it’s something else that exerts that magnetic pull on me, something to do with the radiance of her smile. It’s like spotting a ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds on a winter day. I want to touch it, feel its warmth… capture it, so I can have it for my own.
My body hardens at the thought, dark, X-rated images sliding through my mind. A better man—a better father—would shut that folder right away, if only because of the temptation it presents, but I’m not that man.