When in doubt, get out.
— R. M. F. One
Noah Greer was next on my hit list.
He told Claire he was an entrepreneur from Chicago, but his business card said he was a realtor from East Chicago.
The only thing east of Chicago is Lake Michigan.
Chicago is in Illinois and East Chicago isn't there either.
East Chicago is a half hour south of Chicago, in Indiana. A century ago, it was an industrial powerhouse. Today, it's a heavily polluted shell of its former self with a population half of what it once was. It's the kind of place you'd drive through without stopping unless you're going to the casino. And if you live there, you're probably stuck there.
Being a realtor in East Chicago meant Noah was selling homes nobody wanted. Then again, Noah Greer was also something nobody wanted. He was the kind of guy who's single for a reason. He came off as slimy because he tried too hard to present himself as being big time, but one look at him said small.
I doubted he'd be worth my time, but he'd be so easy to get, I figured, why not?
I was already familiar with the area.
His house was on a quiet street, and he posted online about going to a family reunion in Denver. He'd be gone for days. I could even confirm where he was by the stuff he kept posting on facebook.
I had the place to myself. So why was I struggling? Why did I fear the sound of my copy of his key in the lock to his front door? The sound of metal against metal sounded like thunder.
My heart raced even more when I went inside.
I tried searching the house, but everything was going wrong. I found a file cabinet and was pissed that it was locked. I forgot I had a copy of the key. I tried looking behind pictures on the wall, and I almost dropped one. I was wearing the same gloves I always wore on a job, yet everything felt slippery.
I was getting sloppy.
Why?
Headlights flashed in the window as a car drove by, and I shook. A voice rang in my head. "It's da Boogie man, Hose. I'm not gon' hurt you girl, but I ain' goin' huntin' either. Yo' comin' to me." Another car drove by. I shook again. More lights in the windows. I panicked.
I don't have many rules, but I do have a few, and I added a new one:
When in doubt, get out.
That became rule mother fucking one.
Another car drove by. Another doubt. More lights flashed in the windows. More doubts. I finally had to admit I couldn't do the job.
In my entire life, the worst feeling I ever had was the night my mom died. I was working at The Brass Buckle. There was maybe a minute between when calls started coming into the bar and when I found out. During that minute, everybody was staring at me, like they thought I knew something they didn't. But it was the other way around. And for a minute, all I could do was stand there and wait for somebody to say something. Mom was dead. Phones were ringing, but not mine. Whispers were going around the bar, and everybody knew. Everybody but me.
That minute felt like a lifetime. It was the worst feeling ever, until now. Somehow, this was worse.
I had no reason to leave and nowhere to be, but I couldn't stay here, in this guy's house. Everything sounded like footsteps.
When I could no longer deny I was afraid, I fled.