7. Maggie #2
“You shouldn't be worryin’ about this place right now,” she says.
I pull back enough to look at her. “I literally own it.”
“You know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, I do. Everyone has been handling me carefully since the shooting. Mama. Jules. The volunteers. Even Agatha. They all look at me like I'm one bad moment away from breaking apart. I appreciate the concern, but I also hate it.
“I'm okay.” I give her a tight smile.
Gloria reaches up and pats my cheek. The look she gives me says she doesn't believe a word of it.
By late morning, the shelter has worked its way beneath my skin again. Dogs need feeding. Kennels need cleaning. Volunteers need guidance. A cat escaped into the laundry room. Life continues moving forward.
For a little while, I almost forget about the security detail. I step out of medical intake, carrying paperwork, and nearly walk straight into Luka.
“For heaven’s sake.”
He takes one step backward. “Sorry.”
I stare at him. “Were you standin’ there the whole time?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You were inside,” he answers.
I wait.
Luka waits too.
Finally, I throw one hand into the air. “You realize that's not an answer.”
“It is.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
The man somehow manages to look completely serious as he says it.
A volunteer carrying cat food walks between us. She glances at Luka, immediately decides she'd rather be somewhere else, and changes direction.
I point after her. “See?”
Luka watches the volunteer disappear down the hallway before looking back at me. “What?”
I tuck the paperwork against my side and put a hand on my hip. “You make people nervous.”
He casually looks toward the hallway where she vanished. “She looked fine.”
“She looked like she was calculatin’ escape routes.”
Luka considers that. “She was carrying cat food.”
I open my mouth, then close it again. “You know what? You’re annoyingly difficult to argue with.”
The shelter grows busier around lunchtime. More volunteers arrive. Adoption appointments begin showing up. The phones continue ringing. One reporter actually appears at the front entrance before security redirects him elsewhere.
Jules celebrates the victory as if he had defended a medieval fortress.
By noon, my energy starts running low. Not enough to draw attention, but enough that everything feels heavier than it should. The noise, the movement, and the constant conversations wear me out until even smiling takes effort.
I finish reviewing a transport request and look up to find Jules standing beside my desk, holding a sandwich in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. The expression on his face tells me he has come prepared for battle.
“No,” I say.
“You haven't even looked at it.”
“I don't need to.”
“Maggie.”
I lean back in my chair and cross my arms.
“I'm workin’.”
“You're avoidin’ lunch.”
“Same thing.”
Jules drags the chair out across from my desk and drops into it. The movement makes it abundantly clear that he has no intention of leaving until this conversation is finished.
“Eat.” He places the sandwich directly on top of my paperwork.
The betrayal feels personal. “Excuse me.”
“Eat.”
The smell reaches me as soon as Jules sets the sandwich down. Turkey, cheese, and fresh bread. On any other day, I'd have eaten half of it before he finished lecturing me, but today my stomach turns the moment I smell it. I push it farther away.
“No.”
The teasing leaves him, replaced by the same concern I've been seeing from everyone today. I understand where it comes from, but that doesn't make it easier to stomach.
“I'm fine,” I tell him.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Maggie.”
“My stomach's in knots.”
His eyebrows pull together. “Since when?”
“Since everything.”
The answer is close enough to the truth that I don't feel guilty saying it.
“You still need to eat.”
“I know.” I lean back in the chair, wrapping my arms around myself.
“Then eat.”
I let out a frustrated breath and rub my forehead. “Jules, I can't.”
He studies me carefully. “You feel sick?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
I drop my hand and look toward the sandwich again. The sight of it makes my stomach protest all over again.
“I don't know. The thought of food just makes me want to push it away.”
The look he gives me makes me regret saying anything.
“Maybe stress,” he says.
I shrug. “Probably.”
He crosses one ankle over his knee and continues studying me. “Maybe trauma.”
“Definitely.”
“Maybe your body finally realized your life is ridiculous.”
I smile reluctantly. “That too.”
For a moment, things almost feel normal. Then my phone rings. I reach for it automatically, but confusion creeps in when I see the caller's name.
Mr. Harrison.
My landlord.
“That’s odd,” I mumble.
Jules notices the screen.
“What happened?”
“I don't know yet.”
An uneasy feeling crawls over me before I even answer. I press accept and lift the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Miss Maggie?”
The familiar grandfatherly voice puts me on edge. Something’s wrong.
“Yes, sir?”
“Well now, I hope I'm not botherin’ you,” he says.
My fingers tighten around the phone. “Not at all. Is everythin’ alright?”
His answer makes my stomach drop.
“I was over at the building this mornin’ replacin’ a faucet in apartment three. While I was there, I noticed your apartment door was standin’ open.”
Every muscle in my body locks.
Across the desk, Jules’s posture straightens.
The shelter noise fades into the background.
“What do mean?” I ask.
“Only a little,” Mr. Harrison says. “Maybe an inch or two.”
I grip the edge of the desk with my free hand. I know I locked that door.
“Did anybody go inside?” I ask.
“No, ma'am. I closed it right away and locked it again.”
“Okay.” I swallow hard. “Thank you for callin’ me. I'll be there soon.”
By the time the call ends, my pulse is pounding hard enough that I can feel it in my throat. I lower the phone carefully, only to find Jules already on his feet.
“Tell me.”
A shiver works its way down my spine. If Mr. Harrison didn't open that door, somebody else did.
I meet Jules's eyes. “Mr. Harrison says my apartment door was open.”
The color drains from his face. “Oh, hell no.”
Jules is moving before the words fully leave his mouth. He rounds the desk, snatches his phone off a nearby counter, and starts pacing the office. His sneakers squeak against the tile every few steps while I remain rooted to my chair.
The fear comes in layers. First comes the acknowledgement that my apartment door had been open. Then comes the certainty that I locked it before leaving. Finally comes the understanding that somebody had been inside while I was gone.
Around us, the shelter continues to operate exactly as it did five minutes ago.
Volunteers walk past the office carrying supplies.
Dogs bark from the kennel wing. The front phone rings somewhere near reception.
The normal sounds feel strangely disconnected from the panic beginning to build inside me.
“Maggie.” Jules stops pacing and plants both hands on his hips. His eyes burn into me, studying me closely enough that I know he's seeing every ounce of worry I'm trying to hide.
“Call Alexei.”
The suggestion should annoy me. Instead, the relief I feel almost makes me angry.
Because I already want to call him, and I already know exactly what he's going to say.
Stay put. Don't go alone. Wait for me. The fact that I can predict the conversation so easily says things about my life I don't want to examine.
I stand and pace as I scroll to his number. The phone rings twice before Alexei answers.
“Maggie.”
The sound of his voice takes some of the edge off. Not because it fixes anything. It simply makes me feel less alone standing in the middle of it.
“My landlord called.”
Silence greets me. Not confusion or hesitation. More like the pause of somebody already preparing for bad news.
“What happened?”
I lean against the edge of the desk and stare at the floor. “My apartment door was open.”
He gets right to the point. “Are you there now?”
“No.”
The answer satisfies part of whatever calculation is already happening inside his head. “Good.”
I brace my free hand against the desk. “My landlord found it open this morning.”
“Did he go inside?”
“No.”
“Did anyone else?”
“Not that I know about.”
A chair scrapes faintly on his end of the line. I picture him standing up from behind his desk, grabbing his jacket, and already moving.
“Stay at the shelter.”
The command arrives exactly as expected. I close my eyes. “Alexei.”
“Stay at the shelter,” he insists.
“I'm not plannin’ to charge into danger armed with a leash and positive thinkin’.”
“I'm serious,” Alexei continues. “Don’t leave until I get there.”
“Okay.”
The answer surprises both of us. I hear it in the silence that follows.
Usually, I would argue or push back. I would insist that I'm perfectly capable of handling my own apartment.
Right now, all I can think about is somebody walking through my bedroom while I wasn't there.
Somebody opening drawers. Touching my belongings. Looking through pieces of my life.
The thought makes my stomach flip.
“I'll be there soon,” Alexei says.
I hadn't realized how badly I needed to hear that.
His voice lowers. “Stay with Luka.”
“I will.”
He ends the call, and I lower the phone slowly.
Jules is watching me. “So?”
“He's coming.”
“Well, bless his overprotective heart.”
Instead of putting my phone away, I scroll to Mama's number and hit call. The line rings twice before she answers.
“Hey, baby.”
Some of the tension in my chest eases at the sound of her voice.
“Hey, Mama. You okay?”
A pause greets me. “That's an interestin’ way to start a conversation.”
I lean against the edge of the desk and look out toward the lobby.
“Just checkin'.”
“Mm-hmm.”
The hum tells me she doesn't believe me at all.
“I'm serious. Everythin’ alright at the diner?”
“Everythin’s fine.” I hear dishes clatter in the background. “Lunch crowd's keepin’ us busy, and Doris is still complainin’ about her ex-husband even though she's been divorced longer than you've been alive.”
I smile. “Sounds about right.”