CLAIMED IN CHAOS

Bad Timing

"Where did you get that necklace?" His voice is low and he is not asking like a normal person asks about jewelry. He is asking like he already knows the answer and wants to see if I will lie. The garage is cold and smells like oil and rubber and the concrete is making my feet go numb through my shoes.

I reach up and tuck the chain back under my shirt. My fingers are cold. I can feel the small pendant against my skin. "It was my mom's," I say. "Why?"

He does not answer right away. He looks at the guy who was working on the engine and jerks his chin toward the door. The guy wipes his hands on a rag and leaves, pulling the roll-up door down halfway. The music is still on but lower now. We are alone near the back office and the light from outside is cutting across the floor.

"I asked where you got it," he says again. "I told you. It was my mom's. She died four years ago. I have worn it since then. What does that have to do with anything?"

He steps closer. He is not trying to scare me but he is big and there is a bike frame between us that leaves almost no space. He has a scar on his left hand and his cut says Chaos across the chest with a patch that says Enforcer on it. I remember reading that means he handles problems.

"I need to ask you about a property," I say, because I need to get this back on track. "A lodge off Route 51. The hiring contact was Sarah Lindt. My sister took a job there and she has been missing for three days."

He finally looks away from my neck and looks at my face. His eyes are dark and tired, like he has not slept much.

"I don't do hiring for lodges," he says. "I know you don't. But your name came up when I traced the owner. A holding company tied to this address is listed as the registered agent. I am not saying you hired her. I am saying maybe you know who did."

He leans against the desk and crosses his arms. The motion pulls his shirt tight over his shoulders. There is a coffee cup on the workbench with cold coffee in it. "You come in here, throw a name at me you found online, and want me to open the books because your sister didn't call you?" he says. ""You know how many women take a job and leave town without telling their family?"

His tone makes my throat tighten. I came here because I had no other name. I did not come here to be told I am overreacting. My hands are in my jacket pockets and I am squeezing my keys so hard the metal is digging into my palm. "She didn't leave town," I say. "Her roommate says she left her key on the counter. Her portal login is gone. The number on her offer letter is now linked to a different business name. That is not someone quitting and moving. That is a trail that was cleaned."

He watches me while I talk. He does not interrupt. When I finish, he says, "You a cop?" "No. Freelance cybersecurity. I do small business audits. I find inconsistencies for a living." "So you dig through records." "Yes. And this whole offer is one big inconsistency."

He pushes off the desk. He walks to a filing cabinet and puts his hand on top of it but does not open it.

"What is your sister's name?" he asks. "Mia Monroe. Nineteen. Brown hair, five four. She worked at the diner on Main until last month." He nods once. He does not write it down. He just nods.

"I will ask around," he says. "That's it." "That's not it," I say. "I need to know who Sarah Lindt is. I need to know who actually owns the lodge. If you have a lease or a holding with them, you have a contact."

"You think I am going to hand you private paperwork because you walked in here?" he says. His voice is still low but there is an edge now. "This is not how this works." "Then how does it work? Because I called the management company and they hung up on me. I called the number on the offer letter and it goes to a different business. My sister is nineteen and no one can tell me where she went for her first shift. So tell me how it works."

He looks at me and I can tell he is deciding whether I am trouble or just scared. I am both. The air tool is off now and the garage is quiet except for the music. He says, "You should not have come here alone." "I didn't have anyone else to bring." "That's my point," he says. "You don't know what you are walking into."

I step back because I need space to think. The bike frame is in the way and I bump it with my hip. It is heavy and does not move. I catch myself on the edge of the workbench. The cold coffee cup is right there.

He notices and his shoulders drop a little. He reaches over and moves the cup so I won't knock it over.

"Look," he says. "I get that you are worried about your sister. But you coming in here asking about a property that is tied to us, wearing that necklace, it is bad timing." There it is again. The necklace. "What is wrong with my necklace?" I say.

He does not answer. He looks at it again, even though it is tucked away now. He looks like he wants to ask me to take it out but he does not. "It looks like something I have seen before," he says finally. "Where?" "Long time ago."

That is not an answer. That is a way to avoid answering. I feel heat come up my neck because this is exactly what I hate. People holding back information and acting like it is for my own good. "If you know something about it, you need to tell me," I say. "If it is connected to my mom, I have a right to know."

He laughs once, without humor. "You have a right to know a lot of things. That doesn't mean you get to know them the second you demand them." We stare at each other. Outside, a truck goes by on the road and the light through the half-closed door moves across the oil stains on the floor.

I decided to try a different way. I pull my phone out and show him the screenshot of the offer letter. I hold it up so he can see the phone number and the name Sarah Lindt. "Have you ever seen this name?" I ask.

He looks at the screen. He takes the phone from me, careful not to touch my hand. He zooms in on the number with his thumb. "No," he says. But his mouth tightens when he says it. "You are lying," I say.

"I am not lying about the name," he says. "I have not seen that name. The number though. The number looks like one that used to be used for a rental contact we stopped using last year." Finally, something real. I feel my shoulders drop because at least I got one piece that matches.

"Who used it?" I ask. "I don't know off the top of my head. I can check." "Check now." He hands my phone back. "Not with you standing here." "Why not?" "Because I don't know you," he says. "And you are asking about business that is not yours, wearing a pendant that belonged to someone who died a long time ago, and you want me to do it while you watch. No."

The way he says the last part makes it clear this conversation is over. He walks toward the door, meaning I should follow. I follow because I don't have another choice right now. I have pushed as far as I can without making him shut down completely.

At the door he stops. He looks down again at my chest where the chain is hidden. "Don't go back to that lodge by yourself," he says. "Are you telling me not to look for my sister?" "I am telling you not to go out there alone. If you find something, you call me. You don't go inside."

He pulls a card from his cut. It is plain, just a name and a number. Kade Brennan. No title. I take it. Our fingers do not touch. He is careful about that. "And the necklace?" I say. "You said it belonged to someone who died. Who?"

He looks at the card in my hand, then at me. His jaw works like he is deciding how much to say. "My brother," he says. "His name was Sean. He was seventeen. He disappeared in 2013. They told us he died in a car fire. That pendant looks exactly like the one he never took off."