Guess not. She wasn’t opening her door.
This debacle was his fault. He’d been crazy-busy moving in and getting back to duty at TEAM HQ. Not to mention his nightly activities. Now that Trish was officially missing, his mom was worried out of her mind. Worse, some kind of hooker convention had recently flooded Alexandria’s streets, and that kind of action was right up Trish’s ally. Damn her. The girl never knew when to leave drugs and hooking alone.
This carefully worded letter was his only clue. Ashley might be the key to his sister’s whereabouts. Oddly, as much as he disliked his twin for her destructive behavior and foolish decisions, Tripp worried about Trish. She was, after all, just a woman, and the streets were hard enough on men.
Tripp tried one last time. Putting it all on the line, he ran back to his apartment and snagged the copy of the results from his last physical, off the unopened stack of mail on his kitchen counter. His new boss, Alex Stewart, was a stickler for order and transparency, crap like that. Since Tripp had spent a couple weeks in Seattle, the notorious hotspot in the nation for STDs, Alex had insisted on proof of a clean bill of health. Not that he thought Tripp was stupid or desperate enough to pay for sex, but because that was The TEAM’s number one rule: Don’t ask. Don’t tell. Just do what you’re told.
Out of breath and with his apartment door left open, Tripp slipped the results of his physical and the bloodwork that went with it, under Ashley’s door. Either she’d believe him or she wouldn’t. The next move was hers.
He stepped back and waited, wondering about that phrase, bated breath. Now he knew what it meant. One minute passed. Two. Then three, four, five, six. He gave her enough time to read over the damned thing before he called it quits. But then, because this was Ashley, and he really wanted to get to know her, he took a deep breath and waited another five minutes. It’d taken him a while to read through all the medical mumbo-jumbo. Might take her a few minutes, too.
At fifteen minutes, he jogged back down the hall, shut his door, and ran back to Ashley’s apartment. At twenty, he leaned against the wall opposite her door, folded his legs, and sat his butt on the floor. He could be patient. She was worth it.
Each floor in this five-level building, the sixth of the apartment complex, offered four separate bachelor-size apartments. He lived on the fourth floor. Ashley’s place was closest to the elevator; his was next to hers, beside the fire doors and the stairs that led to ground level. Across from him, a sweet elderly woman, Mrs. Harrison, lived with her dog. Tripp didn’t have a clue who lived across from Ashley. He hadn’t met that tenant yet.
Mrs. Harrison exited her place, closed her door with a firm click, then double-checked the knob, rattling it to make sure it was locked. This morning, she was dressed in black slacks with a black-and-orange-flowered print blouse, and her usual low-heeled dress shoes. Her silver hair was always curled, trimmed, and proper. She was a widow, close to eighty, one of only two people Tripp knew in the entire apartment complex—if he counted Ashley.
Mrs. Harrison had knocked on his door one night before he’d left for Seattle. She’d needed help opening a jar of green olives. Poor thing. That meeting led Tripp to giving her his numbers in case she needed another jar opened, and inviting her over for dinner a couple times before he’d left town. She was lonely, and he’d had zip for a social life. Three moves in a couple months guaranteed that. But he didn’t mind. She and her little dog were two of his favorite people.
“Tripp. What are you doing on the floor? Did you lose something?”
“No, ma’am, just waiting.”
“For who? Ashley Cox?” Why did Mrs. Harrison sound surprised?
“Yes, ma’am. How’s Chipper?” Chipper was her smelly little dachshund that loved his tummy scratched.
Sighing, she shook her head. “I’m afraid his time has come. He ate one of my new slippers. He’s at the vet now, but the prognosis isn’t good. Doctor Myers said his gut’s twisted, and he’s got gastric dilatation-volvulus. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“I’m sorry, yes. When did you take him in?”
Gastric dilatation-volvulus, or GDV, was seriously life-threatening. While the condition generally afflicted large dogs, Dachshunds were one of the few small breeds it targeted. The medical condition occurred when a dog’s stomach bloated, which it surely would’ve done after chowing down an entire slipper. Mortality rates increased quickly, because owners with gassy dogs thought the condition would go away like it had before. By the time they realized their pet was in critical distress, it was oftentimes too late.
“Early this morning,” she replied, a tremor in her voice. “I was there when the vet’s office opened. He took Chipper right in. He’s had him all day.”
Tripp shoved to his feet. “Is that where you were going now?”
The poor woman nodded, then pressed her fingers to her lips and whispered, “He’s all I have. I can’t let him suffer, and I won’t let him die alone.”
“How about I drive?” he asked gently, his feet already aimed to his place and his truck keys.
“That would be sweet of you. The metro’s crowded this time of day.”
“Can I come with you?”
