Chapter 2 #2
He tried to file a restraining order against someone, but it got dropped. No details. Just a dead end in the system like someone reached in and erased it.
Who wanted Kelly’s complaint buried?
I don’t know him. Don’t know anything about him besides the fact that he didn’t call the police when he should have. That part’s stuck in my head because most people would’ve called someone the second I passed out.
He didn’t. He helped me instead. Patched me up. Let me leave.
Why?
Consider me very fucking interested.
I scroll down the file and come across his work schedule.
Kelly’s working at the clinic two days from now. That gives me exactly what I need. While he’s busy saving strays, I’ll have time to take a look at his place. See what he’s hiding. What he’s running from.
My instincts tell me something’s buried under that gentle exterior. Something dark he’s working hard to hide from everyone.
I’m going to figure out exactly what that is.
I can’t walk away until I do.
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel and stare at his building. Almost eight and Kelly should be on his way to work by now. Which means if he doesn’t leave soon, he’s going to be late.
He lives in a decent neighborhood with clean streets, overpriced coffee shops on the corner. The apartment buildings are pressed tight together. His is red brick, seven floors, old fire escape running down the side. His apartment is on the second floor, according to the file.
Daniil pulled the door code for me last night, so I don’t have to sit here waiting for someone to hold it open like a creep. Though that’s exactly what I’m doing—sitting in my car, watching his door like a creep.
I lean back in the seat and exhale.
The door swings open and drags me out of my thoughts. Kelly steps out with his bike, navy scrubs under a black coat, hair messy from the wind. It’s colder than it should be for late September. He pulls the coat tight around himself while he fumbles with the lock.
He hops on his bike and pedals away. I reach for the passenger seat and hiss when I feel my stitches pulling. I grab my kit, pull my hoodie up, and then I head toward the building.
The whole place smells stale with blue paint peeling off the walls. By the time I hit the second floor, I slow down and glance around.
I knock once, just in case. Although the file said no girlfriend, no roommate, nothing else tied to this address, I’m not about to get jumped by some pissed-off girlfriend with a frying pan.
Nothing.
I use the lock kit, and it takes only seconds before I hear the click. I glance over my shoulder once more, then slip inside and shut the door behind me.
What the fuck?
It’s a small, empty apartment.
The door leads straight into the living room, and the kitchen is part of it. He has no furniture. The walls are white with three boxes stacked against them. To the right, a small bathroom door’s slightly ajar. I look to the side where there’s another room—probably his bedroom.
Shrugging, I walk toward the kitchen. Take a peek into the fridge. It’s almost empty with only almond milk, some grapes, and butter.
He’s been living here for a couple of months, but he has no food or furniture? No pictures? The place is spotless, overly clean.
His window is unlocked, so I close it, flipping the latch. He’s going to get himself killed leaving it open like that. What if someone dangerous got in?
I step into his bedroom, turn on the light, and spot a laptop on the desk. It’s as good a place as any to start.
The laptop opens immediately. No password, no security, nothing stopping me.
The window was unlocked.
The door took less than twenty seconds.
Now this.
Kelly doesn’t think or perhaps care about security. About who might want access to his life. He stitched me up, sent me on my way, thinking we were done. We’re not.
He’s at work right now with no idea someone’s in his bedroom going through his things.
That’s dangerous—the kind of careless that gets people robbed, hurt, killed.
He saved my life days ago, and this is how careful he is with his own?
I just need to understand why he didn’t turn me in and whether he’s a threat. That’s logical. It has to be.
I comb through his history, his recent searches, and all his files. It’s full of nothing.
I’m so confused. He’s either the most boring person on Earth or he’s hiding something.
Is he a narc? Maybe he works for the police, undercover or something. I make a mental note to get Daniil to search the police databases.
I pause at his recent porn searches, eyebrows lifting. Amateur gay porn. Interesting.
I stare at the screen, and something tightens in my chest. Something I’ve spent years pretending doesn’t exist. I wasn’t expecting that.
Shouldn’t matter. I’m here to check if he’s a threat, not to …
whatever the fuck this is. My pulse hammers for reasons that have nothing to do with security checks.
I rub my jaw, trying to think clearly.
So aside from his boring porn preferences and the fact that he’s clearly gay, all he has is a Netflix account filled with How I Met Your Mother and Friends, of all things.
No. There has to be something else.
I roll the chair back and accidentally push the laptop, taking in the paper envelopes under it.
So you are hiding something.
I almost burst out laughing when I read the first letter, and then the next, and then the next. Twenty letters. All unpaid parking tickets. I throw them onto the desk, and a manic laugh escapes me.
He doesn’t even have a car registered to his name, and he clearly rides a bike. How does he have so many fucking unpaid parking tickets then?
The whole thing feels off.
Something happened to him in the past few months.
Something is happening to him right now.
He had no record at all until those three arrests started, and something shifted. That kind of shift doesn’t come from nowhere. I’ll make it my mission to figure out what’s going on with him—and whether he’s a threat. Consider it repayment for saving my life.
That thought should terrify me, but it doesn’t. It excites me.
I walk over to the dresser, run my fingers over the top, and pull open the drawers. Shirts, underwear, socks. I pinch the fabric. Nothing worth a second look, nothing hidden underneath. Next, I move to the closet and brush my hand along his jacket. A lot of green. Must be his favorite color.
I turn to leave, and the stitches pull, nausea surging as I grab the dresser. I glance at the bed—the indent of his head still marked into the pillow.
I limp over and sink down onto the mattress, press my face into the pillow where his head rested. His scent clings to the fabric. Faint but unmistakable. Something clean, a little sweet.
Just like at the clinic when those green eyes stared at me in pure terror while his hands shook.
I stare at the ceiling and drag my hand over my stomach where the wound still pulls.
Everything catches up with me—blood loss, wound, exhaustion.
Lying in Kelly’s bed feels too good. Part of me wants to just close my eyes and never open them again.
Fall asleep and stay asleep. Let the tiredness win.
It would be easier than forcing myself to keep going.
I push that thought away and force myself up anyway. Make sure everything looks the same before I leave, then head back to the living room.
The boxes have nothing, just unpacked kitchen items and books.
I flip on the bathroom light and stare at the counter. His toothbrush sits in a ceramic cup, blue with fraying bristles. I trace my finger along the bristles, then set it back down.
The shower curtain’s pulled back. Only one bottle on the edge of the tub. I grab the body wash and twist the cap off and bring it to my nose.
Coconut and lime. The same smell from the clinic that night.
The laundry basket’s shoved in the corner. I dig through it. Jeans, socks, scrubs. My hand closes around something soft. Worn thin.
Green T-shirt. Faded logo.
I pull it out and sniff it.
The scent hits harder than the bottle. Body wash, yeah, but underneath that is sweat and skin. The way he smelled leaning over me in the clinic. Not soap. Not cologne. Just him.
I shove the shirt inside my hoodie without thinking. Probably just the blood loss making me stupid.