By the time we got back to my apartment, he had eaten three servings of fries and two cheeseburgers. He still had some chicken tenders left, and he clutched them in his hands, tightly, as I walked him to my front door.
But, something was wrong.
I stopped him mid-step, before he could climb up the front porch steps. “Cameron, sit on that chair,” I whispered, pushing him up the steps and down onto the chair. Without him seeing, I drew my gun.
My front door had been kicked open.
Wood splinters were scattered all around the porch. Slowly, I pushed the door wide open, spilling light into the front foyer. Stepping through as quietly as possible, I took one last glance at Cameron, who was happily munching on the remainder of his food, and walked inside like I was trained to do in a hostile environment:Eyes, muzzle, threat.
There was a small antique table Dean and I inherited from our grandmother we kept in that front room, now it lay on its side with its drawer dangling from one corner. The coat rack was toppled over it, and our extra jackets and hoodies lay like bodiless beings all across the floor.
Up the stairs my brother’s apartment door was untouched, yet my door, the one on the lower floor was hanging off it’s hinges. A cold wind blew in with me and tingled at the base of my neck.
I was instantly on a call. Burglary, possibly still in progress. I didn’t stop to look at my ruined belongings or what was taken. I looked to clear the house and make it safe. I’d deal with the rest later. The break-in itself would have been simple, unremarkable if it weren’t for the messages left behind, and the chemical scent of fresh paint that filled the air. I doubted anything was taken at all.
This was someone sending a message. A direct message to me, now.
Once I knew the house was safe and empty, I lead Cameron into the foyer and let him sit on one of the steps leading to Dean’s part of the house. I didn’t want him to see what was in my apartment. My front door was spray-painted with the word, “Whore.” All the walls in my apartment were too. My television was smashed in, glittery shards of glass sparkled and glistened over my rug. All of my furniture was tossed over, paintings and pictures ripped off the walls. My vibrator hung from the ceiling fan. Pages of books were shredded into confetti. My refrigerator opened, all its contents spilled out onto the floor. None of that bothered me—not even being called a “whore”—not yet anyway.
What bothered me were the hundreds of pictures scattered over every surface of floor or table inmyhome. Pictures of me in the sexy lingerie I had worn when Harris and I spent a night away on Fire Island. The pictures of me dancing for him, posing for him, having sex with him—I looked like a porn star—like some dirty, filthy woman just screwing some anonymous dick.
The thing was, it looked purposeful; you couldn’t recognize him in any of the pictures.
Only me.
And to anyone who didn’t know I had been falling in love with him, I definitely would have looked like a goddamn whore.
I stumbled back, heart slamming hard in my chest, all those filthy pictures—everywhere.Why would someone do this to me?
