21. Esperr
ESPERR
The door closes behind Zyran; my apartment immediately becomes quiet, and the silence feels a lot heavier than it should. For a moment, I just stand there, staring at the door, my hand still resting on the handle, finger curled around the metal
Then I take a breath and lock it, sliding the deadbolt over quickly. Only then do I test the handle, and when it doesn’t open, I slide the chain over and step back.
My heart is beating harder than it should be, while Zyran's voice slides back through my head. Your door wasn't even locked.
My stomach twists—it can’t be true.
I always lock the door.
That’s not something I just forget. I don’t get careless about it; locking the door is muscle memory. I do it when I leave and when I come home. I check it often, especially before I go to bed.
So how was it unlocked?
Suddenly the apartment feels too open and too quiet.
I turn on my heel and look down the hallway toward the bedroom. Everything looks the same as it did before; the couch and chair sit to my left, with my jacket hanging over the back of the couch. The two-seater kitchen table is to my right, with a nearly empty kitchen.
My feet move me down the hall until I’m standing between the bathroom and bedroom. The bed is unmade; the lamp on the nightstand is still crooked from where I bumped it yesterday. The bathroom door is opened just enough that I can see the edge of the sink—nothing looks wrong.
In the next second I’m sliding across the bedroom floor, dropping to my knees beside the bed. My hand grips the mattress while I lean down and look underneath, holding my breath like I’m waiting for something to jump out at me.
But there’s nothing there, nothing besides dust, a stray sock, and extra cash.
Still, I stay there longer than I need to, my eyes adjusting to the shadows beneath the frame while my heart pounds against my ribs.
I stand up again and move towards the closet, swinging the door open hard enough that it thuds against the wall. My laundry basket sits there, filled with clothes to the top, and boots are in the corner with a few shirts hanging up, but besides that, there’s nothing.
Moving to the bathroom, I yank the shower curtain back, my eyes sweeping across the empty tub.
Letting out a sigh, I open the cabinet and peer under the sink, staring into the dark space beneath it.
There’s no possible way that someone can fit under there, but that doesn’t stop me from holding my breath.
I don’t stop there; I move through the rest of the apartment, opening kitchen cabinets one after another. Checking behind the refrigerator, I couch down and run my hand along the underside of the dining table. Lifting the lamps beside the couch and turning them in my hands, I study the base.
By the time I finish checking every last corner of the living room, my chest feels tight and my pulse is racing.
I lean both hands against the counter and stare down at the floor. This is ridiculous; there’s no one here. I’d feel him. Zyran was the only other person in the apartment, and he left—I watched him leave.
Which means the only explanation for the door being unlocked is something I don’t want to accept—I forgot.
The thought only sits in my chest, heavy and sour.
Zyran is dangerous; he’s a man who simply walks—breaks—into someone else’s apartment like it’s nothing. A man who carried me to bed like he belonged there. Who helped me get rid of a body and didn’t bat an eye and bought me pancakes afterward.
I barely know the man, and I need to keep reminding myself of that.
Last night or the night before doesn’t mean anything.
Even if I did sleep curled up against him. It does not mean anything. It can’t. But the way my body relaxed the second he touched me?—
The sound of my phone cuts loudly through the room, and I jump before I can stop myself. I grab it from the counter, swiping across the screen. “Hello?”
“Hey Esperr,” Jessi, my boss at Wicked Co., says on the other line.
“Hey,” I rushed out to say, already moving towards my shoes by the door. “I’m sorry, I… I lost track of time. I’m grabbing my shoes right now, and I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
If I run fast enough.
“Whoa,” Jessi laughs, “slow down.”
I pause, my foot halfway shoved into one shoe, while I reach for my jacket on the back of the couch.
“You’re not coming in today.”
I frown, my heart racing for another whole reason. “I’m sorry, I…”
“Honey, we’re closed today. Didn’t you see the weather alert?”
I glance at the window, frowning when all I see is snow.
“Uh… no,” I mutter.
Kicking off my shoe, I drop my jacket onto the couch again and head toward the window.
“There’s a big storm coming through,” she continues. “They’re saying it’s going to hit this afternoon and get bad fast; the town’s already advising people to stay home.”
“Oh,” I mutter.
The sky is already thick with clouds, heavy and dark in that strange way storms carry before they finally break. The wind has picked up, bending the top of the trees along the street. Snow has already covered the sidewalk and is beginning to stick to the road.
“Yeah, so I’m not risking everyone driving in, and I don’t plan on opening until the roads are safe.”
I nod slowly, even though she can’t see me. “Alright, uh, just let me know.”
“Will do, stay safe.”
“You too,” I mumble and end the call before the silence stretches any longer and drop my phone onto the small table beside the couch.
For a few seconds I just stand there looking out at the storm cloud gathering across the sky, the snow falling faster and faster as the minutes pass.
But then the realization settles in.
I have nothing to do today.
There’s no shift, no reason to leave, and there’s not really a way I could leave even if I wanted to.
My shoulders tighten slightly as that familiar restless feeling begins creeping under my skin.
I’ve always been moving, always working and running errands, finding some excuse to stay busy.
I rarely let myself sit still long enough for the quiet to settle in.
It’s enough that when I’m asleep my nightmares attack me.
And now the apartment feels too small, too still.
I glance around the room; the couch cushions are slightly crooked, and my jacket lies on the back of the couch. A mug sits on the table, half empty, with a medicine bottle next to it. The kitchen counter has a faint smudge near the sink that probably wouldn’t even catch most people’s attention.
My fingers twitch; the itch under my skin grows stronger.
Before I know it, I head for the kitchen and grab the sponge from beside the sink, turning the faucet to the hottest it can go, letting the water soak into it before squeezing it out. Then I grab the bleach, filling one side of the sink with bleach and water.
The counter is the first thing I wipe down, scrubbing carefully across the surface even though the smudge disappears almost immediately.
When that’s done, I wipe the stove, pulling out the grates and tossing them into the empty side of the sink.
I go through the motions—cabinets, the handles, down to pulling the fridge out.
But by the time I finish the kitchen, the restless energy still hasn’t gone anywhere.
It’s still there, sitting under my skin, pressing in from the inside like something is trying to claw its way out.
The counters are spotless; the smell of bleach hangs heavy in the air, sharp enough that it burns when I breathe too deeply.
Everything is cleaned, exactly the way it should be.
But it doesn’t help.
I stand there for a second with both gloved hands braced against the counter, staring at the smooth surface like I missed something obvious, like if I look hard enough I’ll see it.
Yet, every time I breathe, his words rush back in. Your door wasn’t even locked.
How could I have been so stupid?
And I know it’s because of Zyran. I’m becoming careless with him.
It doesn’t make sense.
And it shouldn’t.
Trust isn’t something I give easily; it isn’t something I feel without questioning it, reading between the lines, and looking between the cracks before it can break me. Everything in me is wired to pause, doubt, and keep distance until I know exactly what I’m dealing with.
Except with him.
And that’s what doesn’t sit right. Because it isn’t just that I know I shouldn’t be with him, it’s that I don’t trust myself around him.
My fingers curl slightly against my thighs as I stare at the floor, my stomach twisting.
I turn towards the living room, grabbing the edge of the coffee table and flipping it over.
The legs scrape loudly across the floor as it turns, and I ignore it, crouching down immediately, running my hands along the underside, pressing into the wood, checking every seam and corner like something might be hidden there.
Pushing it out of the way, my gaze falls to the couch, and before I can even think of it, I pull the cushions off one by one. Each one gets tossed somewhere behind me as I dig into the corners, trying to find anything that shouldn’t be there.
I grab the side of the couch and drag it away from the wall, the legs groaning against the hardwood floors, the sound loud enough to make my shoulder tense as I pull it far enough that it’s now sitting in the middle of the living room.
But there’s nothing but dust, an old pen from the bar—nothing else. I stare at the space for a second longer than I should, acting like something might appear if I wait long enough.
It doesn’t.
I move to the ratty-looking rug, shoving it aside, bunched up and dragged across the floor as I drop to my knees again. Pressing my hand flat against the wood beneath it, I run my palms across the surface.
By the time I stop, the living room looks like a tornado came through; the table is on its side, the couch sits sideways halfway across the floor, and cushions are thrown nearly into the hallway.
And I still haven’t found anything… yet.