My throat tightens at the mention of him, but she doesn’t say it like a weapon. She says it like a truth.
“Come back later,” she adds. “Tell me if it was any good.”
“I will,” I promise.
I move toward the door.
My hand wraps around the knob.
And then I hear it.
A sound from upstairs.
From my apartment.
A thud, faint but unmistakable, bleeding through the paper-thin ceiling.
My whole body locks.
I freeze with my hand on the doorknob, breath caught in my throat.
Another sound. A scrape. Like furniture shifting, or a drawer being yanked open.
My pulse slams into my ears so loud it blots out everything else.
Mrs. Daisy’s voice cuts through the sudden rush of panic. “Sierra? Honey, what’s wrong?”
I don’t answer at first because my brain refuses to accept what my body already knows.
There is someone in my apartment.
I live alone.
No pets. No roommates. No friends with keys.
My gaze drops to my shoulder bag hanging off my arm, with the flash drive inside.
A cold wave washes over me.
Oh my God.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, the words coming out thin.
Mrs. Daisy is already moving. She steps between me and the door like she’s shielding me from the hallway, from the upstairs stairs, from the whole world. “What is it?”
“There’s…” My voice breaks. I swallow hard. “There’s someone in my apartment.”
Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t panic. Not outwardly. She moves with this sharp, practiced calm that makes me wonder what she’s lived through to learn it.
She locks her front door.
The click is loud.
“Come here,” she says, tugging my elbow. “Behind the couch. Now.”
I follow like a puppet.
We crouch low behind her couch, half hidden from the windows. My hands tremble so badly my phone nearly slips out of my grip. My bag is clutched to my chest like a shield.
