Chapter 15 Jordan
Jordan
Now
When I hear the glass breaking, my heart leaps into my throat, even as my thoughts fly back to the day I found the door of our Jamaica Plain apartment busted open.
Is it happening all over again? I stand frozen for what feels like an eternity but in reality is no more than thirty seconds.
Is someone in our home? The thought of venturing beyond my office, investigating the cause of the noise, fills me with dread. What should I do?
Then I remember: I can call Angelo! He’s right downstairs in the lobby, and he has a key to our door. He has keys for all the doors in the Glendale. Even better, he can be up here in less than a minute.
I reach for my phone, but it isn’t in my pocket.
With a growing sense of panic, I glance toward the desk, hoping to see it lying there next to my computer.
It isn’t. Then I remember. It’s still on the nightstand in the bedroom, which means I’ll have to walk through the apartment if I want to summon help.
Crap.
I edge toward the door, which stands half open, and peer out into the living room beyond.
Everything looks fine. The apartment is silent, the only sound coming from the white noise playing on the Echo.
Suddenly, I want the silence, because that white noise might be hiding the movements of an intruder.
I move close to the Echo, which is sitting on my desk, and whisper a terse voice command.
Thankfully, the white noise shuts off as Alexa issues a cheery Okay.
I cringe at the response, which is much too loud, even as I turn my attention back to the door.
Deathly silence descends upon the apartment.
I strain to listen, praying that I won’t hear a stealthy footfall or a careless exhalation of breath from somewhere beyond the office that will confirm I’m not alone.
Thankfully, I detect nothing out of the ordinary.
Only a barely audible hum of traffic from the city beyond my window.
But it means nothing. An intruder could still be here, lying in wait.
Get a grip, I mentally chide myself. There’s nothing to be afraid of in this apartment.
It helps . . . a little. Even so, when I step toward the office door, push it wider to get a better view, my stomach is in knots.
I ease the door all the way open to make sure no one is standing behind it, then venture out, glancing left and right.
Nothing. The living room is empty. I hurry through it toward the bedroom, finding that to be empty, too.
Then my gaze shifts to the walk-in closet.
If this were a horror movie, a killer would be hiding inside, knife in hand.
But it’s not a slasher flick, and I can’t let myself think like that.
I stride over to the closet, fling the door open, and step inside before I can change my mind.
I sweep the clothes back on the rail, even though I already know the closet is empty, because I would have seen an intruder’s feet the moment I walked in.
After grabbing my phone, I return to the living room and check the kitchen.
At first, I see nothing out of place. No reason for the sound.
But then my gaze drops to the upturned wineglasses sitting on the counter next to the sink.
Last night, when I rinsed them out after my parents had left, there were four.
Now I only see three. The reason soon becomes evident.
There is broken glass in the sink. A stem and base.
Pieces of tulip-shaped goblet and smaller shards.
This was what I heard. A glass falling into the sink and smashing.
Did I leave one too close to the edge? If so, why did it fall now, after so many hours?
And what about the thud that preceded it?
I stare at the broken glass, trying to make sense of how it got there, but come up empty. The most obvious answer is that one of our neighbors slammed their front door—the thud—which caused a vibration that toppled the glass into the sink.
That must be it.
I slump and release a calming breath. I hadn’t realized until now, but I’ve been clenching my jaw and gripping the phone so tight that my fingers are starting to ache.
I put the phone down on the counter, relieved that I won’t have to summon the doorman to rescue me.
I’m about to reach down, pluck the broken pieces of glass from the sink, and dump them in the trash when another sound makes me jump.
Three sharp knocks on the apartment door.