“Stay here,” he repeats, moving out of the room quickly.
Immediately I go and lock the door, and then I listen through the walls like a total creeper. All I need is a glass stuck to my ear.
Nope. I don’t look guilty at all.
Chapter 8
The attempt and not the deed confounds us.
—William Shakespeare
LOGAN
“Think he’s just not home?” Donny asks as I pound on the door again.
My eyes rake over the empty driveway, but there’s a sealed garage. His vehicle could be in there.
“The neighbor said he rarely goes anywhere and never has visitors. She said he left this morning, but came back and has been inside ever since.”
Before I can knock again, the door swings open, and I look down, seeing something I really wasn’t expecting.
Jacob Denver is in a wheelchair.
“Sorry,” he tells us, looking at us with confused eyes. “It sometimes takes me a minute to transfer to my chair. How can I help you guys?”
The blinds are all drawn, but surely someone should have mentioned him in a wheelchair. I hate surprises, and I rarely have to deal with them.
Donny’s eyebrows are at his hairline, just as surprised by this turn of events as I am.
“Um…care if we ask you some questions?” I finally manage to get out.
It’s a whole new line of questioning now.
“Sure. Want to come in? The place is a mess, but it’s not as easy to clean as it used to be.”
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
“Thanks,” I say, moving by him as he backs his chair out of the way.
My profiling mind gets to work as Donny types something into his phone. I glance toward the kitchen that is off to the right. All the countertops are lower than standard, making it more handicap accessible. I didn’t notice the ramp by the porch as suspicious, but now I realize I should have. His floors are all level and seamless, not even threshold plates over the connections to rooms.
The cabinets on top in the kitchen have no doors, but all that’s there are decorative things. Nothing someone would need to work in a kitchen.
My eyes scan the living room, finding the chair off the side that is at an angle, a remote dangling, as though he had to get help lifting out of it to slide into his wheelchair.
“It’s cheating,” he says, drawing my attention to him as he gestures to the recliner I was just eyeing. “But it makes life easier.”
He’s tone and somewhat fit, but I can’t see his legs too well in the sweatpants. Hate it is as I do, I discreetly kneel, pretending to adjust my shoe, and my eyes scan the bottoms of his shoes to see perfectly clean soles. They never touch the ground.
Well, fuck. He’s really handicapped.
I rise up, and he wheels into the living room.
“What the fuck?” I hiss to Donny.