25. Miles #2
Slowly, I ease my apartment door open, holding my breath as I wait for something, or someone, to come lunging out at me. My eyes dart across every shadow and corner, every single place someone could be hiding.
Now I finally understand how the people in all those Halloween movies feel, creeping through an empty house while they wait for the killer to step out of the darkness.
“What the fuck…” I faintly hear Nate state, but I can barely hear him over the anger that's coursing through me.
My blood pumps loudly in my ears and my heart hammers in my chest, filling me entirely with adrenaline as I take in the sight before me.
Papers litter the floor of my apartment, each one covered in the same word scrawled in thick red Sharpie.
MINE.
Over and over again.
The little furniture I own has been overturned and shredded, deep knife marks carved through the fabric as if someone stabbed it again and again just for the satisfaction of destroying it.
Red paint is everywhere—splattered across the countertops, smeared over the appliances, streaked along the walls, dripping down the furniture. Every message says the same thing.
MINE.
My stomach plummets as my gaze lands on my bed.
The mattress has been slashed to pieces, white stuffing spilling from the cuts like its insides have been ripped out.
Feathers from my pillows blanket the room, stained crimson beneath splashes of red paint.
And above my bed, painted in massive dripping letters across the wall, is the message that steals the air from my lungs.
SHE BELONGS WITH ME.
This is the second fucking time. The second time that psychopath has broken into my apartment and torn my life apart like it means nothing. I guess to him, it doesn’t.
My chest tightens as I make my way to my desk, already knowing what I'm going to find. Sure enough, my computer is destroyed. Again. The monitor is shattered, the tower caved in like someone took their time making sure it would never turn on again.
I swallow hard.
I’d had a feeling something like this might happen, which is why I took my laptop with me before I left. It wasn’t paranoia after all. What I didn’t expect was for the son of a bitch to find my cameras.
Every single visible camera has been ripped apart. Their wires hang from the walls in jagged pieces, cleanly clipped, and every memory card is gone.
My pulse pounds against my ribs. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were looking for. But there are two cameras I'm almost certain they didn’t find. One hidden inside the peephole of my front door, the other tucked away inside the smoke detector.
If I'm right, then maybe they made one mistake.
“Nate, go grab my laptop out of the Jeep,” I say, unable to tear my eyes away from the destruction surrounding me. “I need to see if those hidden cameras caught this fucker. Hudson, call someone to clean this shit up. It’s about time I get rid of this place anyway.”
Neither of them questions me. They exchange a glance before splitting off to do exactly what I asked, leaving me alone with the wreckage of what used to be my apartment.
As soon as they're gone, I make up my mind. I'm not calling Maddie, at least, not yet. The second she hears someone broke in again, she’s going to spiral. She’ll blame herself, convince herself this is somehow her fault, and the last thing I need is for her to be alone when that happens.
I’ll tell her when I see her. At least then I’ll be there to keep her grounded.
A few moments later, Hudson steps back inside, sliding his phone into his pocket.
“It's done,” he says. “Cleanup crew’s on the way.”
I nod absently before wandering into the kitchen. Broken glass crunches beneath my boots with every step, and streaks of dried red paint cover nearly every surface. Somehow, despite destroying almost everything else I own, the asshole left the fridge alone.
I pull it open and let out a humorless laugh.
“Well…at least he didn’t touch my beer.”
Hudson chuckles under his breath as I toss him a bottle before grabbing one for myself. We pop the caps off and clink the necks together without saying a word. The beer burns on the way down, but not nearly enough to dull the anger simmering beneath my skin.
“So,” Hudson says after another drink, “what now? You staying at the safe house?”
“Yeah.” I lean back against the counter, rolling the cold bottle between my palms. “And Maddie's done staying in the dorms too. This shit’s getting out of hand. I'm not giving that piece of shit another opportunity to catch us slipping.”
“It’s probably for the best.”
“It is.”
The apartment falls quiet again until the front door opens.
Nate walks in carrying my laptop, and every muscle in my body tenses.
Finally.
I set my beer aside, drag one of the only bar stools that survived the attack over to the counter, and flip the laptop open before it's even fully in front of me.
As it boots up, my gaze catches on the red paint still smeared across the countertop. Dry. Completely fucking dry. I look around the apartment again, taking in the hardened drips running down the walls and the paint crusted over the furniture.
This didn't happen today. Hell, it probably didn’t even happen yesterday.