8. Alexei
ALEXEI
Maggie stares at the empty space beneath her desk like the answer might appear if she looks hard enough.
It won’t.
The planner is gone. The one thing taken from this apartment is the one thing that tells someone how she lives. My blood goes still in a way that has nothing to do with calm. This wasn’t a robbery. It was preparation.
Maggie’s face loses color as the realization sinks in.
She stands near the desk with one hand gripping the edge, her knuckles pale against the wood, while clothes and papers lie scattered across the room around us.
The bedroom is too small for what I feel.
Too ordinary for the kind of violence moving through my mind.
Someone came into her home, stood where I’m standing, touched her belongings, searched her drawers, and took what would help them reach her again.
“Maggie,” I say.
She blinks once, but she doesn’t look at me. “That planner had everything.”
“Which is exactly why they took it.”
“My schedule.” Her voice shakes, and she presses one hand against her stomach as if she can hold herself together that way. “Shelter appointments. Fundraisers. Doctor stuff. Mama’s diner hours each week. It had my life in it.”
I look toward Luka, who’s standing near the bedroom doorway with his phone in hand. Viktor is near the window, his injured arm secured against his chest while he checks the latch with his good hand.
“Anything?” I ask.
Viktor looks over his shoulder. “No sign of tampering.”
Luka lowers his phone. “Front door shows no damage.”
Maggie laughs once, but there’s no humor in it. “Well, that’s real reassurin’.”
I turn back to her. She’s trying hard to look unaffected. Her shoulders are squared, her chin lifted, but her fingers tremble, and her breathing remains uneven.
“Who has a key?” I ask.
“Me. Mr. Harrison has a spare for maintenance emergencies.” She swallows and looks around the bedroom again. “Mama has one somewhere, but she never uses it. Jules has one for emergencies too, but he would have told me if he came by.”
I step closer, placing myself between her and the worst of the mess without thinking about it. “You’re not staying here.”
Her mouth opens, but no argument comes out.
That alone tells me how badly the apartment has changed for her.
Maggie would argue with a hurricane if she thought the wind was being unreasonable.
Now she looks toward the bed, the open drawers, the overturned basket near the closet, and I watch the fight drain from her shoulders.
“I can’t,” she says.
Two words. Small enough to sound defeated. Honest enough to make me want to put my fist through the wall.
Instead, I control my voice. “Pack what you need. We’ll take the rest later.”
Her brows pull together. “I don’t even know what I need.”
“Then we take what’s necessary for tonight.”
She drags a hand through her hair and lets out a slow breath. “I already have clothes at your house.”
“You’ll take more.”
She gives me a tired look. “Bossy even during a break-in.”
“Yes.”
The edge of her mouth moves like she might smile. It disappears almost as fast as it appeared, but I see it. I take the victory because there are too few of them right now.
“Give us a minute,” I tell Luka and Viktor.
They leave without comment.
Maggie crouches near the dresser and begins gathering clothes from the floor. Her hands move quickly, without purpose, folding one shirt and then abandoning it for another. She picks up a pair of socks, stares at them as though she has no idea what they are and drops them back onto the carpet.
I crouch beside her and take the shirt from her hands.
“You don’t have to do that.” She swallows while reaching for another item rather than meeting my eyes.
“No. I don’t.” I fold the shirt anyway.
“Then why are you?” she asks, finally looking at me.
“Because you folded the same shirt three times.”
Her lips part as she looks down at the clothing in her hands. A breath leaves her, unsteady and too close to breaking. She presses her fingers against her forehead.
“I’m not usually like this.”
I place the shirt next to me. “I know.”
“I’m not helpless.” The statement sounds less like a correction and more like a plea.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“I hate that somebody came in here.” Her voice drops, and she looks toward the doorway as if she can still see the intruder moving through her home. “I hate that they touched my things. I hate that they know where I sleep.”
“They wanted your attention. Now they have mine.” The words scrape their way out.
Maggie goes still, then looks at me. “I believe that,” she says, meeting my eyes.
She does. That’s the problem. Maggie believes me with the same stubborn loyalty she gives everything else. Her shelter. Her mother. Jules. Ivy. Now me. She trusts me to stand between her and whatever’s coming, and every new threat feels like proof that I haven’t stood close enough.
I grab another shirt from the floor and fold it. “This isn’t your fault.”
She swallows once before turning away. “That sounds real easy when you say it.”
“It’s not easy.”
“No,” she whispers. “It sure isn’t.”
I know she understands what I'm saying. Understanding it and believing it are two different things.
Neither of us speaks after that. There’s nothing left to say. The apartment is small, and the bedroom has already told the story. Whoever entered knew exactly what they wanted, found it, and left without wasting time.
Maggie picks up a stack of papers near the nightstand. A receipt slips free and skates beneath the bed. She starts to reach for it, then stops. Her hand hovers near the edge of the mattress, and something changes in her face.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
Her answer is too fast.
“Maggie.”
She shakes her head, gathering the papers against her chest. “It’s nothing important.”
There’s something she’s not telling me. I see it in the way she refuses to meet my eyes and how her fingers grip the papers until the edges bend.
Normally, I would push. Today, she’s standing in the wreckage of her bedroom, trying not to come apart under the strain of too many fears. So, I let it wait for now.
Maggie takes a steadying breath and crosses to the closet. She emerges with a battered blue suitcase that has seen better days, sets it on the bed, and unzips it.
This time, her movements have purpose.
She gathers several changes of clothes, a pair of shoes, her laptop, and a folder stuffed with shelter paperwork.
I pick up what remains scattered across the floor and place it where it belongs while she continues packing.
Together we restore some order to the room, though neither of us is foolish enough to mistake that for fixing what happened here.
Maggie pauses beside the dresser long enough to grab a bottle of prescription-strength dog shampoo. She studies it for a second, then tucks it into the suitcase beside the shelter paperwork.
I cannot help the faint smile that appears. Even now, she’s thinking about the animals before herself.
A few minutes later, Luka steps into the doorway. Viktor appears behind him.
“We should leave,” Luka advises.
I agree, though hearing it from him irritates me because I should have moved her out of this apartment already.
“We’re going,” I tell Maggie.
She looks around the room one last time. I recognize that look. She’s saying goodbye to something without wanting to admit it.
At the front door, Mr. Harrison waits in the hall, twisting his reading glasses between both hands. His face tightens when he sees Maggie carrying the suitcase.
“You leavin’, Miss Maggie?”
“For a little while,” she says, trying to sound composed.
The old man nods, though his eyes move over her face with open worry. “I’ll keep an eye on things till you come back. Don’t you worry about that. I’ll check the door every day.”
Maggie’s lower lip shakes before she gets it under control. “Thank you.”
I step forward and remove a business card from my wallet. “If you hear anything, see anything, or remember anything from today, call me directly.”
Mr. Harrison takes the card with both hands, looks at the number, then at me. He understands enough not to ask what kind of man gives an instruction that sounds more like an order than a request.
“I will.”
“Any hour,” I add.
“Yes, sir.”
Maggie watches the exchange, her bag strap sliding down one shoulder. I adjust it before she can, and her eyes lift to mine. She lets me help and that stays with me.
Viktor and Luka have already gone down to the street level.
I keep my hand lightly against her lower back while we cross the hallway.
The elevator arrives with a low chime. Maggie steps inside first. I follow her, and the doors slide shut behind us.
For the first time since entering her apartment, the quiet leaves room for everything neither of us wants to think about.
Maggie's attention remains fixed on the glowing floor numbers above the doors while her fingers stay wrapped around the strap of her bag. The leather bends beneath her grip. Without a word, I lift the strap from her shoulder.
She turns toward me. “What are you doin’?”
“Carrying it.”
A faint crease appears between her brows. “I can carry my own bag.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to.”
I can almost see the argument forming behind her eyes. Then the fight drains away before it reaches her mouth. She releases a slow breath and lets me keep the bag.
The elevator reaches the lobby, and we make our way through the building before stepping into the humid evening air. Viktor takes the suitcase while Luka heads toward the driver's seat. A minute later, we're inside the SUV and pulling away from the curb.