Hatched

Chapter Thirty-Seven

July 3rd, 2021

2300 hours

The streets were still, so quiet that Quinn could hear his footsteps as he walked briskly down the sidewalk. He would have preferred a more leisurely, hesitant pace, as he wasn't eager to arrive at his destination; however, the meeting was long overdue, and he couldn't procrastinate any longer. As the residence emerged out of the darkness, Quinn ran a steady hand through his wavy hair. It was shaggier than he would have preferred, but the investigation had cut into his personal time, and he was unable to cut it between his stints from the main land to the rig. His long fingers tangled briefly in the locks, and he frowned agitatedly, emitting a sigh.

Sneaking out of Robyn's house had been easy. She was in deep sleep after their rendezvous, but he felt guilty for leaving. He knew it wasn't easy for her to open up, and the fact that she even allowed him to enter her thoughts, much less her heart, caused him to feel a ping of unworthiness. However, his feelings for her were just as strong, and he fully intended to make good with his promise. He would love her the way she needed to be loved, unconditionally. It was natural, with her, and he imagined it was because they were so similar. Really, as he thought about it, she was worth it, and that's what mattered.

He gazed upon the small house before him. It was well-kept, though the paint was fading, and the plants needed trimming, but it gave off a quaint, inconspicuous ambiance. He only hoped that what he found inside was the same, but that was highly doubtful. A nagging discontent gnawed at his insides, creating a mild acid reflux in his stomach. He belched uncharacteristically and murmured a quiet "excuse me" to himself.

He didn't feel the wooden steps under his feet as he strode toward the front door; his mind was preoccupied, already whirring with possibilities of what he might hear when he set foot in the house.

He had barley grazed the door with his knuckles when it opened inwardly, and his eyes were met with a pair of dark, wrinkled ones. The man was ancient, hunched, and looked as if he'd seen one too many bad days. Those brown, murky eyes held such a pain that it almost took Quinn aback.

"Mr. Ellis," he began, not missing a beat, though his heart was now in his throat. This case was making him edgy and uncollected, something he surely was not, "you're not dead."

"No," Mr. Ellis replied, a hint of amusement in his voice that contradicted the deep sadness in his eyes "it sure took you fools long enough."

"I'm not sure I follow." Quinn frowned, leaning toward the aged man, peering at him suspiciously through the crack.

"It's that look right there," Ellis continued, opening the door fully "and that ridiculous suit that gave you away. You're a fed, right?"

"Yes sir, that's correct. Special Agent Quinn Jones." He reached into his suit pocket for his badge, but Ellis held up a withered hand.

"I don't need to see it." He sighed, gesturing for Quinn to enter. "I always knew you'd show up. I just didn't count on it taking so damn long."

"Thank you, sir." Quinn stepped into the house, noting a lack of décor. There were a few simple living room pieces and farmhouse style furnishings, but it seemed Mr. Ellis lived a rather minimalistic life. "Might I ask why?"

"Why I let you in?"

"Why you were expecting to be visited by law enforcement." Quinn spoke lowly, but clearly, lingering in the hallway until he was offered a seat.

"Go sit, son, you look like you're exhausted." Ellis grunted, pushing Quinn toward the sitting room. He caught a frightful glimpse of himself in the hall mirror: he indeed looked worse for wear, with dark circles framing his eyes, his skin dull and dry. What frightened him the most was the defeated look in his stormy eyes. He shrugged and followed Ellis, sinking his limbs gratefully into a soft chair. The upholstery was lightly stained and smelled faintly of tobacco.