Chapter 5 #2
Instead, I headed back to my car, started the engine, and pulled away, driving to her apartment building.
Paint peeled from the exterior like scabs, revealing crumbling brick underneath.
Three of the mailboxes in the lobby hung open, their locks broken.
The stairwell smelled of urine and stale cigarettes, forcing me to breathe through my mouth as I climbed to the third floor.
I found her apartment easily enough—3B, at the end of a dimly lit hallway. I stood there for a moment, but I already knew she wasn't home. She was still at Sunny's, ringing up cigarettes and lottery tickets while looking like death warmed over.
I shouldn't be doing this. Breaking and entering wasn't exactly the best way to build trust. But concern overrode my better judgment as I pulled out my lock picks. The crap lock took less than ten seconds to open. I slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind me, and noticed the huge-ass bolt on the inside that looked new. I stared at it, feeling slightly sick because that obviously meant she didn’t feel safe in her home.
The apartment was tiny, just one room with a bathroom off to the side. A twin bed with a thin blanket occupied one corner, a hot plate and mini fridge in another. No TV, no computer. Just a small table with a single chair, and a stack of what looked like bills held down by a chipped mug.
Everything was unnaturally tidy, almost obsessively so. The bed was made with military precision, the few dishes in the drying rack perfectly aligned. It didn't match the Lottie I'd observed—she seemed more casual than meticulous.
I moved carefully through the space, looking for...what, exactly? I wasn't sure. Evidence of whatever she was hiding, I supposed. The bathroom was equally sparse—a shower with a plastic curtain, a sink with a crack running through the basin, and a medicine cabinet with a loose hinge.
I opened the cabinet, expecting to find the usual toiletries. Instead, my blood ran cold.
Syringes. At least a dozen used ones, carefully capped and placed in a plastic bag. No clean or sterile ones, no medicine that would explain them being here.
"Shit," I muttered, my mind immediately jumping to the worst conclusion.
The tremors, the urgency to get home, her refusal to let me see her apartment—it all made a terrible kind of sense.
She was an addict. Living in this neighborhood, working at Sunny's, it wasn't exactly a stretch.
I'd seen the signs before in others, in people we'd tried to help.
The secretiveness, the physical symptoms, the desperate need to maintain control of her environment.
I closed the cabinet, feeling sick. This explained why she'd been so resistant to my help. Addicts had to protect their supply, their routine. Moving to a new place, changing jobs—that would disrupt the delicate teetering balance of her life.
I scanned the tiny apartment again, looking for other signs. No visible drugs, but addicts were good at hiding their stashes.
I checked my watch. Her shift would end in a few hours.
I needed to be here when she got back. This couldn't wait.
Whatever she was using, she was clearly in a dangerous situation—the neighborhood, the job, the apartment with less than zero security to say nothing of the mess with her uncle. And now this.
I settled into the single chair at the small table, prepared to wait. Part of me felt guilty for invading her privacy, but concern overrode that. If she was using, she needed help whether she wanted it or not. I could get her into a good rehab program; it wasn't like I couldn't afford it.
The hours passed slowly as I sat in her silent apartment.
I noticed other details—the teddy bear now carefully propped on her pillow, a framed photo of a young couple I assumed were her parents, a small notebook with careful calculations of what appeared to be a budget.
Every penny accounted for, with barely anything left over, which made little sense when drugs had to be paid for.
Just before seven, I heard footsteps in the hallway. A key in the lock. I stood, positioning myself where she would see me immediately—no point in scaring her more than necessary.
The door swung open, and Lottie froze on the threshold, her eyes widening in shock and fear.
"Walker?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "What—how did you—"
"We need to talk," I said firmly, watching her face carefully for signs of use. Her pupils seemed normal, but she looked exhausted, her skin waxy and pale. "About what I found in your bathroom."
Her hand flew to her mouth, and tears immediately filled her eyes. The reaction confirmed my suspicions. "You went through my things?" she whispered, the betrayal evident in her voice. “It was you?”
"I was worried about you," I said, keeping my tone even. "And now I'm more worried. Lottie, whatever you're using, there are better ways to deal with—"
"Using?" She stared at me in confusion, then understanding dawned on her face. "You think I'm on drugs?"
"I have contacts that can get you help." I stood and took a step toward her, but she backed away, her back hitting an old dresser.
“Get out,” she ordered. “Just get out.”
“Lottie—” but she was still holding her purse and with what sounded suspiciously like a sob she simply threw it at me. I caught it reflexively. “Look in there. Look then get the hell out of my life.”
I pulled open the purse, my hands suddenly clumsy with dread. Inside was a small zippered case. I flipped it open to find a glucose monitor, test strips, two needles, and a nearly empty insulin bottle. Not drugs. Diabetes supplies.
"You're diabetic," I said, my voice hollow as understanding crashed over me. The trembling, the urgency to get home, her reluctance to let me see her apartment—it had nothing to do with addiction. She'd been having a medical emergency, and I'd completely misread the situation.
"Type two, since I was seven," she said, her voice shaking with anger and hurt. "Congratulations on figuring it out by breaking into my home and violating my privacy."
Shame burned through me, hot and sickening. "Lottie, I'm so sorry. I was worried about you, and I—"
"Stop." She held up her hand, tears streaming down her face now. "You don't get to justify this. You broke into my apartment—twice!"
"Twice?" I stared at her, confusion cutting through my shame. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't pretend you weren't here yesterday," she said, wrapping her arms around herself protectively. "You moved everything. Organized all my things. Left Mr. Snuggles on the floor."
Ice crawled up my spine. "Lottie, that wasn't me. I swear to you, I've never been in your apartment before today."
Her face paled even further, if that was possible. "But...someone was here. Someone went through all my things."
"When?" I asked, all my security instincts kicking in at once.
"Yesterday. While I was at work." Her voice trembled. "Everything was rearranged, but nothing was taken. I stayed with my neighbor last night because I was scared."
My mind raced through the implications. Someone else had been in her apartment, someone methodical enough to go through her things without taking anything obvious. Someone who might come back.
"The new bolt," I said, nodding toward her door. "Your neighbor did that?"
She nodded, still watching me warily. "Her husband installed it last night."
I ran a hand over my face, trying to process everything. I'd completely misunderstood her situation, invaded her privacy, and now discovered someone else had done exactly the same thing. I'd never felt like more of an asshole in my life.
"Lottie, I know I have no right to ask this, but we need to call the cops. Someone broke into your apartment, and it wasn't me."
She shook her head immediately. "No police. They never come to this neighborhood anyway, and what would I tell them? Nothing was stolen."
"This is serious," I insisted, taking a step toward her. "Whoever was here might come back."
"Don't." She backed away from me. "Just don't. You don't get to scare me. You think you know better. Living in your fancy house—” But then she swayed and I had her in my arms.
“Baby, you need to see a doctor.”
She shook her head even as tears rolled down her cheeks but she didn't try and get away. “Then let me take you home. See my doc. You know him.” I was ten seconds away from insisting on it, but I’d already screwed up enough and consent was a major tenet in my life. “Please,” I whispered, holding her.
Lottie sagged in my arms, and I wasn’t happy her agreement tasted more like defeat, but I carefully laid her on the couch then grabbed her insulin, shoving it in her purse, texting Doc a pic of the drug vial. At the last second I remembered her bear. I had her in my car within ten minutes.