3. The Ransacked Apartment
Chapter 3
The Ransacked Apartment
The scent of my mom’s lavender and cinnamon candles used to be the first thing that greeted me when I walked through the door. Now, it’s a faint whisper, drowned out by the acrid smell of dust and something burnt. I feel a chill, not from the temperature, but from the hollow emptiness that’s replaced the warmth of home. It doesn’t feel like my apartment anymore.
The place is a battlefield of destruction. Overturned furniture, shards of broken glass, and scattered belongings create a chaotic scene. My heart sinks. This isn’t just a robbery—this is a message.
“This wasn’t a recent visit,” Alexander says, his finger tracing a line through the dust coating the overturned furniture.
I nod, my throat tight. “They must have come here right after we left.”
My eyes scan the scene, taking it in. The coffee table, where we used to have Friday tea, is overturned, its glass top shattered into a thousand pieces. The bookshelves are empty, their contents strewn across the floor like a library ravaged by a hurricane. My father’s antique globe, a treasure he’d brought back from one of his travels, lies smashed on the floor.
My fingers tremble as I reach out to touch the broken pieces, a shard of glass cutting into my palm. The pain is sharp and piercing.
Alexander is already moving through the apartment, taking in every detail like a hunter, assessing the scene, piecing together the clues.
I try to follow him, but my feet seem rooted to the floor, my body has frozen.
Everything is turned upside down. The scattered belongings - it all feels so familiar. It brings back a painful memory, a scene from my childhood. Before my parents died, our home was ransacked in a similar way. My mom whisked me away while my dad cleaned up the mess. My eyes well up with bittersweet tears.
The apartment feels like a tomb. My parents’ things, their memories, are spread out like bones on the floor. Why would anyone do this? The question is a raw, searing wound, and the anger that erupts within me is a wild, untamed fire, burning away the fear in its path.
The anger gives way to a wave of grief like a tide threatening to drown me. I can feel my hand shaking as I reach out to touch the canvas of one of my mother’s paintings torn off the wall, my fingers tracing the outline of the sunflowers, their yellow petals now smudged and torn.
My mother’s paintings were her legacy, her passion, her voice. To see them destroyed is a wound that cuts deep, a wound that bleeds into the very fabric of my soul.
My father’s favorite tweed jacket, which he wore to every family gathering, lies crumpled on the floor, its buttons ripped off. It is one of the only things I’ve kept from my father.
I pick up a crumpled photograph, a faded image of my parents, their faces beaming. I clutch the faded photo, their smiles frozen in time.
I know that I’m never coming back here. This apartment is not my home anymore. Home is with Alexander, in the safe house, in the shadows. Wherever he is, I will be with him.
Still, it feels like I’m losing everything, piece by piece. Will I lose him too?
What if Sarah’s place is like this? What if they got to her? The thought is a monster in the shadows. I can’t even think about her being hurt, about her being—violated.
Alexander stops at the bookcase, his eyes tracing the empty shelves. His hand brushes over the chipped surface.
“Who did this?” I manage. But deep down, I know it’s Cole.
He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze still glued to the destruction around him. He picks up a shard of glass, turns it over in his hand, and examines it with a chilling intensity.
“It’s a message,” Alexander says, his voice a low rumble. “They were watching us, and they want us to know. They want to scare us.”
“Looking for what?” I ask, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“My best guess is you—”
I glance at Alexander, searching for reassurance, but his eyes hold only a grim determination, his jaw clenched tight. We’re no longer safe.
If we ever were—
“We have to go,” he says, his gaze darting around the room, his hand instinctively reaching for the gun at his hip. “To the safe house.”
But there’s somewhere else I want to go.
“We have to stop at Sarah’s place first,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s on the way.”
“No,” Alexander snaps, his tone sharp. “It’s too risky. You know what happened to—my sister.”
I see the fear in his eyes and the desperate need to keep those he loves safe.
“Just a quick check,” I insist, my voice rising. “We need to know.”
“No,” he says, his voice hard. “Don’t push it, Ava.”
I swallow my throat tight with frustration. I don’t want to argue, but I need to protect her.
“We’re going to Sarah!” I snap, already heading towards my room. There’s just something I need to grab before we go.
My mom’s jewelry box, a beautiful antique silver thing, lies open, most of the contents gone. My dad’s papers were in there too – her passports, everything is scattered, tossed in a chaotic frenzy.
I just want her necklace. I fall to my knees, searching the floor, fingers frantic. Where the hell is it?
“Ava, we have to leave,” Alexander says from the living room. His voice is tight.
Finally, under a pile of papers, I find the necklace, a simple gold chain with a star and a heart charm. It wasn’t expensive, just a little trinket my dad gave her on their first anniversary. He said the star symbolized the day a star fell on his path, giving his life meaning, meaning my mom. The heart; his love for her. I clutch it tight.
Then my eyes catch something else.
A crumpled newspaper. Well, that is strange. Where did it come from?
I pick it up; the headline is printed in Russian, I think? Or Polish? Why would the intruders leave this behind?
I take a deep breath, my hands trembling.
“Alexander,” I call out, and he’s there in a flash like he always is.
I look at him, hoping he can decipher it.
“How much Russian do you know?” I ask, the newspaper feeling dry and brittle in my hand, rough against my skin.
He shrugs. “Some. Enough to get by with shipping and trades. Why?”
I hand him the newspaper, his brow furrowing as he examines it. He scans the text, his lips moving silently.
A few moments later, he speaks, “It’s about a ship leaving from Russia. Human traffickers, I think—it was fired at from the harbor.” He pauses, his gaze fixed on the newspaper. “It seems someone was trying to stop it from leaving.”
“What does that mean?” I wonder out loud, tilting my head. My brain isn’t connecting the dots.
He shrugs again. “Not sure. We’ll figure it out. Right now, we need to get out of here.”
I nod, I don’t know what the newspaper means, but it feels like another puzzle piece.
I take a deep breath, my hands shaking, trying to steady myself. I pick up a few of their things – a silver ring, a faded photograph – clutching onto a piece of the life that was ripped away. Tears well up, but I force them back.
“I’m not coming back here,” I say, my voice cracking. “This place isn’t home anymore.”
Alexander’s arm slides around my shoulders. “You don’t have to,” he whispers.
I sniffle, burying my face in his chest. Pulling back, my gaze lingers on the ravaged apartment, the remnants of my life scattered like broken glass.
Home is with him. He’s my haven, the only place I find peace.
My fingers trace the foreign words on the crumpled newspaper. I take one last look at the wreckage of a life lost, a home stolen.
Grief and gratitude are two sides of the same coin. I leave the past behind, holding the warmth of the present close.
And then, we leave.
“To Sarah?” he asks, his arm still around me, the other hand resting on the gun at his hip.
I nod.