13. Chapter 13
The rest of the night blurred into a sickening montage of flashing sirens and the relentless, invasive scrape of police officers tearing my apartment apart.
They searched every room in my apartment, only to find nobody else here.
Again and again, the lead officer asked the same question, his breath smelling of stale tobacco: “What’s missing? What did they take?”
“Nothing,” I whispered for the tenth time, clutching a blanket around my shivering shoulders. “Nothing is gone.”
That was the most violation-inducing part. There was no shattered glass. No splintered doorframe. They found no sign of forced entry.
When they asked about my daily routine, the realization of my own predictability made my stomach churn. I left for Blackthorne at the exact same hour every morning; I walked the exact same streets home every night. Even my parking space was the same one in the lot.
“You’ve been watched,” the officer concluded with a grim shrug. “Someone tracked your patterns, waited for the window, and slipped in while you were out.”
Someone who no doubt worked for him.
My mind spun into a dizzying vortex of questions that the alcohol-fueled hangover only magnified.
How was the Jester able to get his hands on Blackthorne stationery while locked in a maximum-security cell?
And how, in the span of a single afternoon, did he coordinate a break-in at a specific apartment in a city of thousands?
The horror of it hit me in physical waves.
Three times that night, the world tilted violently, forcing me to cut off the police officers mid-sentence and stumble blindly toward the washbasin, my ribs aching as I retched up nothing but stomach acid and sour leftover liquor from all those shots.
Every corner of my sanctuary now felt contaminated by the phantom touch of the Jester.
But as the sky outside the window slowly bled from pitch black to a cold, bruised gray, the paralyzing terror began to curdle. The shaking in my hands stopped, replaced by a rigid, simmering heat. The fear was stripping away, revealing anger beneath.
How dare that psychotic, locked-up monster reach out from his cage and touch my life? How dare he violate the one place I felt safe, turning my home into a stage for his sick, twisted little theater? He wanted my attention. He wanted me terrified, looking over my shoulder, jumping at every shadow.
Well, he got my attention. But as I stared at the blank wall, my teeth grinding together until my jaw ached, I swore to myself that when I walked back into Blackthorne the day after tomorrow, I wouldn't let him see me flinch.
Hell, he’d be lucky if I even spared him a single glance.
The next day was supposed to be a regular day off, but it felt more like an uneasy ceasefire. The police had finally left at dawn, leaving me with nothing but a lingering sense of violation and a piece of paper.
The responding officer had made it frustratingly clear: because nothing was taken, no felony had been committed.
Without proof of who had actually been inside my apartment, they couldn’t call it a burglary.
They promised to document the incident, but told me there wasn't much else they could do.
They made sure to add though that it would be wise to install a security system.
Great.
Emma thankfully hadn’t left my side. She had slept fitfully on my tiny, threadbare sofa, and the moment the sun broke over the horizon, she quietly set about putting my life back together.
While I sat frozen at the kitchen table, staring at the clean square of wood where the Jester card had been, Emma moved through the apartment like a gentle whirlwind—straightening overturned books, folding scattered clothes, and brewing a pot of strong, bitter black tea.
By afternoon, the frantic edge of the previous night had softened into a muted, exhausted calm.
We sat cross-legged on the floor of my living room, the teapot resting between us on a trivet.
For the first time in months, we just talked.
We caught up on the small, mundane pieces of life that my grueling shifts at Blackthorne had forced me to neglect.
Eventually, the conversation drifted to Stella, Emma’s girlfriend.
"Have you heard from her?" I asked softly, wrapping my hands around my steaming mug.
Emma shook her head, staring down at the dark swirl of her tea.
"Not a text or call since I left." It was a relief, in a twisted way, to think about a normal heartbreak instead of a psychotic inmate. "She’s been becoming so detached lately. It’s like... every time I try to reach out, I’m pulling at a fraying rope. I think it’s officially over."
"I'm sorry. You didn't deserve to be ghosted."
Emma gave a shrug. “Oh, I know.” But then she hesitated. "Are you okay? Really? Between the things at your job and... last night..."
A lump formed in my throat, thick and painful. I swallowed it down, drawing my knees closer to my chest. "I’m terrified, but mostly I just feel so pissed off because some lunatic in a cell decided to fuck with me."
Emma smiled gently, but a look of fierce protectiveness crossed her features.
"Well, you don't have to carry all that anger by yourself.
" She reached out, squeezing my knee. "I was going to wait until the paperwork cleared to tell you, but... I’m moving back to this side of town next week.
I found a place just three blocks over."
I blinked, the heavy weight in my chest lifting just a fraction. "You are?"
"Yeah, so if you ever feel unsafe, if you need a place to crash, or if you just need someone to sit in silence and help you curse the universe, I’m right here. You’re not alone in this."
Hearing those words broke the last of the rigid tension holding me together. A tear finally slipped down my cheek.
Before I could apologize for crying, Emma shifted forward and pulled me into a hug.
I buried my face into her shoulder, wrapping my arms around her as if she were an anchor keeping me from drifting away into the dark.
She held onto me tightly, her hand gently patting my back, offering a quiet, unyielding warmth that finally made the phantom chill of the Jester fade away.