I stand to my feet and take a step back, away from the door.
“Remi!” I shout her name into the phone, but the only response I get is two tonal beeps. When I pull my phone from my ear and look at it, the line has gone dead.
What the fuck?
Lightning flashes once more, neon blue this time.
There isn’t anyone at the door.
I take a breath in through my nose.
I’m just paranoid.
With Storm’s general weirdness and his bullshit in his car, it’s messing with my head.
I’m just paranoid.
No one is there, and I’m fine.
But the breath before I start to head toward the door—no umbrella in the golden holder—I hear a chime at my back.
I whip around fast, my fingers curled tight over my phone.
The elevator.
The number has changed.
First floor.
The metallic doors start to spring open.
My heart thuds hard in my chest, and I don’t wait to see who steps out.
I sprint toward the exit and don’t let myself stall to feel any fear about who may or may not be outside. I burst into the rain and jog down the steps without looking back.
Then I run all the way to my place without slowing once.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
STORM
Iknow he’s inside this apartment. I watched him walk in myself half an hour after Sloane texted me one fucking word, to come by in the morning. After I invited her on a date to see bands play songs I don’t even particularly love save for a few but the way she looked when I told her I didn’t like “Torn” made it seem as if I should be put on trial for death by firing squad.
And yeah, maybe I want to see her because dealing with Lydia and the Flynn’s bullshit is making me twitchy and maybe I want to see her because the coke in my system is making me ragey, but most of all I want to see her because she’s nothing like anything else I’ve got.
After last night, I need an escape.
And maybe, too, I have to stop staring at her camera feed, worried now that she’ll be the next target since my anonymous texter seems to be a goddamn murderer.
I pace in the hall of her second story apartment and close my eyes tight. It’s Friday on a college campus but it’s a long weekend so the place is dead and I canhearher TV through the freakishly thin walls. I can’t tell what it is they’re watching but if she starts moaning, I’m going to shoot him on sight.
Before I can pull out the Glock, my phone—a far less lethal weapon—starts vibrating in the pocket of my Tom Ford deep blue bomber jacket.
I snatch it out before I start shooting idiots named Dax, and answer as I jog down the stairs to the landing between floors so Sloane won’t hear me out here like a stalker.
I know she doesn’t believe I’ve got cameras at her door. I’ve seen her searching. She just can’t seem to see over the frame of the door and they’re the size of a dime so I don’t fault her, and I’m relieved. If she saw them, she’d throw them away as she gave me the middle finger right before she did.
