Safe.
The door swings open too easily, like it was barely latched. A warning bell chimes in my head, but I’m already barreling inside and switching on the light. The bulb flickers once, twice, then floods my tiny studio with harsh fluorescent brightness.
I go still, every muscle in my body freezing.
My home is gone.
In its place, I find a war zone.
Chapter 15
Aurora
The wooden futon couch I stumbled upon on the curb that doubles as my bed has been gutted. Foam innards spill across the floor like pale intestines, the cushions I’d carefully stitched sheets onto in an attempt to reupholster slashed and scattered, the fabric hanging in ribbons.
My small bookshelf is knocked over, paperbacks and textbooks from my abandoned college days strewn across the floor, their pages ripped out and their covers bent back.
The fridge door hangs open, its meager contents dumped onto the linoleum. Even the ancient oven and microwave are open.
My few framed photos are shattered on the floor. Samantha and me at her high school graduation, my grandmother in her garden, my mother’s graduation picture that I’ve kept despite the pain it brings. The frames are broken, the photos themselves torn or stabbed through.
The site before me is not just one of destruction.
It’s violation.
Someone has ransacked my things and destroyed what little I have. Invaded the one space that was mine alone.
“No.” The whisper works its way up my throat and past my dry lips as horror spreads through me. “No, no, no.”
My gaze snaps to the corner that houses my art supplies—the one area of my life where I still feel some control, some purpose—and my heart plummets to the floor. My tile cutters, nippers, grout tools…are all thrown about the floor.
Boxes of salvaged glass and ceramic pieces are upended, colors mingling in a chaotic heap. The small work table is overturned. And both of the pieces I was working on, a commissioned piece and one special project for Samantha’s birthday, are smashed beyond repair.
Broken things I could always fix or reassemble into something beautiful. But this? This deliberate destruction feels personal. Malicious.
I turn in a slow circle, cataloguing the damage, striving to understand what they were searching for. Money? I have none, except for the meager amount in my bank account. Information? About what? The murder I witnessed? The conversation I overheard at Gio Falcone’s party months ago?
Gio.
The name rises in my mind like a dark tide as my gaze lands on a picture pinned to the far wall. A splash of white against the peeling paint. I drift closer, bare feet navigating the debris strewn across the floor.
A high-quality photograph. Clearly taken with an expensive lens. My body temperature plunges when I recognize the subject.
Samantha.
My beautiful, brilliant little sister walking out of her dormitory. Her auburn hair glints in the sunlight, and she has her backpack slung over one shoulder, her coffee in hand. She’s smiling at something out of frame, unaware she’s being tracked. Unaware of the stark red crosshair superimposed over her face.
There’s a note below the captured image. The neat block letters seem almost mechanical in their precision.
“Silence is a sister’s best friend. Next time, we won’t miss.”
The message is chilling in its simplicity, and I know immediately who sent it.
Does Gio think I ran my mouth about the conversation I overheard at his mansion?
He knows I work at Red Bird’s. Knows I was there last night. Somehow, he’s connected me to Benny’s death and to whatever’s happening between his organization and Alexei’s. He believes I’m involved and might talk. And he’s reminding me of exactly what I’ll lose if I do.
My fingers tremble as I reach for the photo and yank it free from the wall. The paper tears, leaving Samantha’s smiling face bisected. The red crosshair is somehow more vivid against the damaged surface.
