Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
I needed to give him time for his feelings to grow as deep as mine were.
So I had to act like the separation wasn’t killing me as I parked out front of my apartment building.
See, now here is the part where things were a little bit fuzzy. I had no idea if, when I put my key in the lock, it met any resistance. Like it would if it was actually locked.
All I knew was there were no outward signs of anything being wrong. Not in the first landing, or up at the top of the stairs when I reached that door.
It wasn’t until I pushed open my door and flicked on my light that my belly bottomed out.
Someone had been in my apartment.
No, not only been in it.
Tossed it.
And not in a “where are the cash and valuables” kind of way. Not that I actually had any cash or valuables. I liked having too many choices to invest in expensive jewelry or designer clothing and shoes. I bought crap from big box stores or inexpensive online retailers, so I had options to fit my moods.
There was literally nothing in my apartment of any worth save for, I guess, my laptop that was stashed in a drawer in my nightstand. And, I guess, my grandmother’s and mother’s engagement rings that I’d been meaning to get turned into some sort of necklace for years, but never actually doing it.
The destruction in my apartment wasn’t about cash value items.
This was someone looking for something that I may have hidden.
My couch cushions were gutted.
Every decorative item that had been on my shelves or sitting on top of cabinets, even my wall art, had been torn down. Most of it was broken shards shattered all around the floor.
I stood there frozen for a moment, listening to the silence in my apartment and my own heartbeat thumping in my ears.
Then I was moving, some part of me needing to know what else was wrecked.
The kitchen was a disaster, every pot, pan, plate, cup, and dish thrown on the ground, so they could inspect the insides of the cabinets.
Even my fridge had been opened, all the items tossed out, so they could inspect each inch of my fridge and freezer.
Instinctively, I walked over toward the ice cream, picking it up, and tossing it into the garbage. It squeezed in my hand, completely defrosted, all but ready to spill out of the seal on the bottom.
I pushed the fridge and freezer doors closed, but left the rest of the food mess on the floor as I turned into my dressing room.
Clothes were scattered, but seemed unharmed.
But the couch was gutted.
And, for no reason whatsoever, my very expensive mirror had been smashed.
With a little sob caught in my throat, I ran toward my jewelry box, finding the contents scattered, like they’d looked through it, but decided nothing was worth even stealing.
Tucked way in the back, though, were the rings that meant so much to me.
Thank god.
I slipped them on my fingers, not wanting to risk anything happening to them as I walked back out of that room, and headed up the stairs toward my loft.
There was nothing up there that I cared all that much about. Some bottles of somewhat expensive perfume, but not enough that it would break my bank to replace my favorites. The laptop. Some little trinkets.
There was glass scattered on the floor near the window, my little sun catchers I’d bought at the Renaissance faire pulled down for no good reason at all, since there was no way to hide anything there.
I wasn’t surprised to find my laptop missing.
Or my bed ripped open.
Jokes on you, assholes, I thought, looking at the split memory foam mattress, that this is full of fiberglass.
I remember being upset when I found that out after I bought it and the return window closed. But the fiberglass, apparently, was what helped them meet fire safety standards. And was completely safe if you left the cover on and didn’t cut or puncture it in any way.
But being so reckless as to slice it open?
They would be covered in the shit.
In their eyes.
On their skin.
Breathing it into their lungs.
On that last bit, I decided to hold my own breath as I started toward the stairs, my hand reaching for my phone, wanting to text Brooks to tell him, hoping he might come over and know what to do.
But it was then that I heard it.
Footsteps.
The apartment was quiet enough, and the stairs creaky enough, to be able to make it out even from the loft.
Adrenaline spiked as I realized it wasn’t just one set that might belong to Brooks or even Sage showing up unannounced.
It was at least two sets.
Two sets of footsteps belonging to people I definitely didn’t invite. People who’d picked the lower lock, because I knew I’d locked it before heading up myself.