“Yeah, yeah, I see you,” I murmur, laughing under my breath. I reach into the bag, grab a single kernel. He leaps up, his nails tapping against the floor in dance. Drool flicks everywhere as he tap dances across the kitchen floor.
“Sit,” I order, holding the piece above his head. He obeys, dropping his haunches to the floor so fast his tail smacks against the cabinet. “Good boy,” I say, tossing the piece into his mouth. He chomps down with a happy snap, tail hammering the floor like he hasn’t eaten in days. After a few seconds, he’s back to pawing my leg, begging for more.
“Greedy boy,” I tease, shaking my head as I yank a bowl from the cupboard and dump the rest of the bag into it. He follows me out of the kitchen, his nails clicking against the floor with each step, sticking close like my shadow.
Bowl in hand, I sink into the couch cushions, grab the remote, hit play, and toss it back onto the table. The TV flickers to life, blue light washes over the room as voices fill the quiet space. I let out a slow breath and pull the butterfly couch throw over my legs. Settled, I take a handful of popcorn and shovel it into my mouth. I’m mid-chew when Max freezes.
His ears perk, head snapping toward the door. His body stiffens, hackles rising along his spine. The sudden change yanks me upright.
“Max?” I whisper, but he doesn’t look at me. His attention is fixed on the door, a low growl building deep in his chest.
Knock knock.
The sound echoes through the apartment, sharp and out of place at this hour. My body locks as Max’s growl explodes into a series of harsh barks, loud and frantic. The door rattles under the force of the next knock—louder, heavier, more insistent. Each echo cracks like gunfire in the silence. My heart slams against my ribs. Every instinct tells me not to move, to stay still and let whoever it is give up and go away.
But Max won’t stop barking. He charges toward the door, claws scraping the floor as he throws his weight against it.
“Max, hush!” I hiss, pausing the television.
I set the bowl down on the coffee table and toss the blanket off me before getting up. I step around the coffee table and over to the door and grab his collar to pull him back. He resists, barking again, his muscles vibrating with tension. I tug hard, pulling him back just enough that his front paws lift off the floor.
“Get back,” I command, voice shaking more than I want it to.
He growls again and ignores my command, instead staying close, pacing at my leg as I edge closer to the door. The knocking stops. Silence stretches thin between each breath. My hand trembles as I reach for the lock, heart hammering so loud it fills my ears. I lean forward, rising on my toes to look through the peephole.
Emilio.
Relief hits first—then confusion. My breath rushes out in a shaky whoosh I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Max is still huffing beside me, tail thumping in short, uncertain bursts, the fur between his shoulders bristled.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, palm on his head, thumb rubbing the soft spot behind his ear that always settles him. “It’s just Emilio.”
I slide the deadbolt back; the metal click feels too loud in the small entryway. My fingers don’t want to work right. I turn the knob and pull.
“Emilio? What are you doing here?” My voice comes out softer than I expect, almost a whisper.
His eyes meet mine—and my lungs seize. Pain is carved deep into his face, raw and unguarded, the kind of expression no one wears when they bring good news.
“Can I come in?” His voice is quiet, almost fragile. His hands are buried in the pockets of his jeans, like he’s bracing himself.
My pulse stutters. I step aside. He moves past me, closes the door softly with his palm, and stands there a beat, like he needs to make sure it’s shut between us and the outside before he can speak.
“What’s going on?” My voice barely makes it out.
He doesn’t answer right away. His silence gnaws at me, every second stretching taut. “You’re scaring me, Emilio. Just tell me—what’s going on?”
“There’s no easy way to say this,” he begins, voice steady but weighted, each word deliberate. “But I wanted you to hear it from me. Not from the news. Not from anyone else.”
He gestures toward the couch like he wants me to sit. I don’t. I can’t. I shake my head, and he exhales, stepping closer, his golden eyes darkened by whatever is weighing him down.
“I was called to a Priority One tonight. Possible home invasion at Stone Ridge Heights.”
My stomach drops, and my pulse pounds so hard I can feel it in my ears.
“Another call came in after,” he continues, eyes never leaving mine. “A neighbor reported screams and sounds of a struggle coming from Apartment 4018.”
My breath catches, a sound tearing loose from my throat. I don’t need him to say it. I know. My whole body knows.
Khloe.
