“I think I still have something.”
He stopped. His eyes darkened. Not in anger. In hope.
I climbed out of the bed. My legs trembled. I didn't wait for his permission. I didn't need it. This wasn't about disobedience. This was about resurrection. Camille had left me something. And I was going to get it back.
Wolfe was behind the wheel, engine idling low, one hand on the gearshift, the other resting on his thigh. His head turned slightly toward me, but his eyes didn’t leave the building.
The apartment complex looked smaller than I remembered. Grayer. The corners eaten by water damage. The windows clouded over with grime that no one had cleaned in years.
I had lived in this building like a ghost. Forgotten by neighbors. Feared by landlords. My mail never lasted more than a week before being stolen or shredded. It was the last place I knew before Wolfe made me his.
He stared at it now like it was harmless. Like it was just a building. That was his mistake.
“I’ll only be a second,” I said.
He didn’t speak
then.
“I don’t like this.”
“No one knows I’m here. You’ll see anyone coming a mile away anyway. Beep the horn and I’m out of there.”
His hand tightened on the steering wheel, leather creaking beneath his palm.
Then, finally:
“Be quick.”
His jaw clenched hard enough I thought he might crack a tooth.
“You don’t come out in sixty seconds, I’m tearing that door off its hinges.”
I believed him.
I nodded. Reached for the door handle. He didn’t look at me. That was the part that stuck. Not the silence. The trust. I closed the door gently. The latch clicked shut.
The air outside hit colder than I expected. The wind tugged at the hem of my coat. My boots scuffed the pavement as I crossed the lot. Broken glass glinted between the cracks in the concrete.
I knew this was stupid. I knew Camille wouldn’t have wanted me to come alone. But I wasn’t doing it for her. I was doing it for the part of me she left behind.
The building loomed above me like it had been waiting. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t.
I made it to the door. Key still worked. The metal stuck in the lock for a breath before it gave.
I slipped inside.
The hallway was darker than it should have been. One of the bulbs overhead flickered. Someone had sprayed graffiti across the elevator. I didn’t take it. I never trusted that thing.
I climbed the stairs.
Two flights.
The same scent still lingered in the walls. Mold. Rot. Cheap detergent. The door to my old unit was exactly as I left it. Peeling paint. A dent near the knob from when I kicked it once in a fight I don’t remember starting.
I opened it slowly. The apartment hadn’t changed. Not the mess. Not the silence. The mattress was still on the floor. The curtains hung limp and stained. The light from the street outsidebled through the slats in gray strips. But it was still mine. Or had been.
I crossed the room. The floor creaked under my weight. I knelt beside the vent in the wall. Fingers trembling.
