“You know which part.” I bump his shoulder. “My grandmother is probably rolling in her grave.”
“Or giving you a high five from heaven.”
“Nick!”
“What? I’m sure she’d want you to be happy, even if that meant getting dicked down in her sacred office.”
I feel my cheeks heat.
We pass the closed boutiques, their windows decorated with scarecrows and autumn leaves. The streets are still packed with festivalgoers in costumes, along with drunk tourists stumbling home from Bookers. My body still tingles from his touch, and I’malready thinking about what we’ll do when we get home. I could go for round two.
We turn down the sidewalk toward my condo, and I’m mid-sentence about wanting kettle corn when something makes me stop.
The porch light is off, and I know when Nick walked me to the coffee shop, we left it on. I always do. It’s been a habit since I moved in six years ago.
“Nick, did you turn off the porch light?” I ask.
“No,” he says, and then he sees it too.
My front door isn’t completely closed. It’s been broken off the hinges and is cracked open. Darkness from inside bleeds onto the porch like spilled ink.
“Stay here.” His entire demeanor changes.
The playful, relaxed man from seconds ago is gone, replaced by someone ready for combat. His shoulders square and jaw clenched tight, Nick positions himself between me and my condo.
“But what if?—”
“Please, stay here.” His voice is commanding in a way I’ve never heard before. He pulls out his phone. “I’m calling the police.”
But I can’t just stand scared on the sidewalk.
This is my home. My safe space.
I follow him up the sidewalk, my heart pounding so hard that I can feel it in my throat.
Nick pushes the door open wider with his foot, not touching the handle. Smart. Fingerprints. He reaches inside to flip the light switch, his body still blocking mine.
The living room illuminates, and my stomach drops like I’m on a roller coaster going down.
Everything is wrong.
The couch cushions are at odd angles, with indents in each one. I can imagine him sitting on each of them. Picture frames on my bookshelf have been moved—the one of me and my parents is facedown; the one of me, Autumn, and Blaire is turned backward. My grandmother’s quilt, which is always draped over the back of my couch, lies crumpled on the floor. Craig knows how much that means to me and he tossed it aside like trash.
“Don’t go in,” Nick says, already on the phone with 911, but I’m pushing past him.
“My things?—”
“Don’t touch anything.” He grabs my arm, gently pulling me back to him. “This is a crime scene, Jules. I don’t know if he’s still here or not.”
The words hit me like ice water. Crime scene.
I’m shaking as we move through the apartment, careful not to disturb anything. In the kitchen, every cabinet door hangs open. My spice rack has been reorganized, the labels all facing different directions. The junk drawer is pulled out, contents rifled through, but nothing obviously missing.
“Why would someone—” I start, then stop because I know why.
This isn’t about theft; it’s Craig showing me that he’s touched everything of mine.
The bathroom is worse. My medicine cabinet is open; bottles of ibuprofen and vitamins are in the sink. The shower curtain is pulled back. Even my makeup bag has been unzipped, lipsticks and mascara scattered on the counter, but it’s my bedroom that makes bile rise in my throat.
