Chapter 7
Thirteen Days Before the Hurricane
Turning in to Gemma’s apartment complex—a cluster of low peach buildings with tired palms and a cracked sign that reads Winter Oak in chipped paint on a sun-warped placard—my stomach lurches. The complex looks so quiet. So ordinary.
I guess the terrible news hasn’t reached this part of town yet.
Her apartment is near the main office, and I scan for her car—a red Nissan Sentra named Betty. But it’s not there, and her apartment windows are dark.
The idea comes to me quickly, and I throw my car into park before I can change my mind.
“OhmyGod!” Panting, I burst through the front door of the apartment’s leasing office.
An older woman jerks forward in her seat at the sound of my voice.
“I fucked up. Like seriously fucked up. I’m supposed to be cat-sitting for my friend in unit 2B.
” I’m talking fast, not giving her room to question me as I reach her desk.
“Betty—my friend’s cat—has a heart condition.
Pills every twelve hours or she croaks. And my friend had to work, so I said I’d come over to give her the pills.
But I left her spare key at my place. You have to help me, or Betty’s a goner.
Please? Can I borrow your key? Long enough to give her her meds? ”
The woman’s face pinches, either worried about the cat or convinced I’m out of my mind.
“Please,” I beg, letting the grief crack my voice.
I just need to see it. Maybe then I can believe she’s gone.
The woman walks to a wall-mounted case, retrieving a key. “Two minutes,” she says and smiles sweetly. “I’m not supposed to do this. But we cat lovers have to stick together, right?”
“I’ll be right back,” I promise.
I just need…something. Something to unmake this nightmare.
As I let myself into the apartment, I know I’m being crazy.
I’m mid-lecture, in fact—telling myself I shouldn’t be here—when the scent hits me.
Not the cloying rot of something gone wrong, only the faint trace of a lived-in space.
Drugstore shampoo. A candle with a name like Coastal Birch or First Snow.
Gemma.
The blinds are drawn, and the kitchen is immaculate—not a dish on the counter or a coffee mug in the sink.
But as I step farther inside, the hush pressing in around me, my steps falter.
The apartment isn’t clean. It’s empty.
The last time I was here, there were fairy lights strung over the sliding doors in the living room.
The blue sofa—with its wilting cushions and a red-wine stain on one arm—had a woven throw blanket draped over it.
Gemma had a bookshelf chockablock with books, and a small desk in her bedroom so organized it could have passed for a Pinterest page.
Now, the TV is gone, but the wall mount is still there. Tilted slightly, like the TV was removed hastily. The sofa and coffee table are there, too, but they’re bare. The bookshelf is hollowed out. What’s left feels staged, like someone cleaned out everything personal and left only the bones.
I cross the room in slow steps, half expecting to find a note, or a photo—anything to prove Gemma inhabited this place. But all I see is a faint ring on the coffee table, like someone lifted a mug too late to stop the stain. The ring is cold to the touch. No moisture or warmth.
But this was her place.
I walk through the bedroom, where a bare mattress and frame are left.
No sheets. The dresser is empty. So is the closet.
Gemma’s bathroom drawers? Barren. I spin back toward the kitchen, driven by panic now.
I yank hard on the cabinet door handles and drawer pulls, already knowing what I’m going to find.
The refrigerator, the pantry. Even the space beneath the sink. Everything is empty.
Like Gemma was never here.
I put my hand on my head, feeling dizzy and wondering if I’m losing it. A few days ago, everything was easy come, easy go. Dinners, workout classes, shopping, trips—Beau and I lived life as it came. And now? My friend is dead. Heart heavy, I steady myself against the doorjamb for a moment.
And then the front door clicks.
Shit.
I freeze.
A second later, it opens—and Detective Ardell steps inside as my heart stutters. I can see he’s startled, too, because he reaches for the weapon on his belt.
“Sorry, sorry,” I blurt, lifting my hands reflexively.
His eyes land on me, and for an uncomfortable second, neither of us speaks.
“Este, what the hell are you doing here?” He seems both irritated and staggered.
I blink, looking around for a second like the answer might spring forward from one of Gemma’s empty cabinets. But then I say the only honest thing that comes to mind. “I don’t understand what happened. I wanted to see—” I say, fighting back fresh tears. “I thought that maybe—”
Ardell exhales through his nose. “You shouldn’t be here, Este.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I wipe my face. “It wasn’t taped off,” I add, softer now. “So I thought maybe—maybe it was okay to come inside? I needed to see it. I can’t believe she’s…” Tears threaten to spill again.
Ardell doesn’t move. He doesn’t say it’s okay. He doesn’t say it’s not. He just watches me for a long moment, and I can’t tell if he’s going to escort me out, call the front office, or hug me. Then, his gaze flicks from me to the empty apartment.
“It’s not usually like this,” I say. “The last time I was here it felt lived in. But now it’s…”
Ardell nods, frowning. “Where is everything? Was she moving?” He surveys the space, suspicion creasing his forehead.
“She was supposed to be interviewing for a job. I helped her prep for it. She was putting down roots.”
He’s listening, but his eyes drift past me. He’s more focused on cataloging what used to be the living room.
“Beau said she was found in the alley behind Lemon & Fig all alone? And Tippy said it was a hit-and-run?”
“Maybe.” He shakes his head.
My stomach flips. “What does that mean?”
“We’re still looking into a few things.” He starts toward the bedroom and then turns back to me. “You should head out. I’ve got a team on the way.”
Then it clicks. He’s investigating something. This isn’t some kind of routine check.
Gemma’s death might not have been an accident.
My body goes light and then heavy, like the moment an elevator cable catches, and I have to reach for the counter to stay upright. The 310 number comes roaring back.
Ardell’s eyebrows twitch, like something’s just occurred to him. “What time did you leave the party last night?”
I shrink a little. “Around ten, I think. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Got it. Listen, I’ll follow up if I need any more information.” He waves it off.
“Right.”
I tell him I understand, but my hands are shaking as I place the borrowed key on the counter and move for the front door. I glance back one more time at Ardell and the empty apartment. Then, a wave of dread hits me, and I hustle to my car, trying to outrun the eerie feeling creeping up my back.
Because if Gemma’s death wasn’t an accident, someone wanted her gone.