I roll the leather book between my hands and groan.
“This is bullshit,” I say.
I flip to a section at the back. Immigration papers.
I lean in, my pulse kicking up.
Finally, something worth digging into.
Permanent resident.
I snap a quick photo of his sponsor information.
Oksana Ivanov.
A woman. Engaged. Not listed as a spouse after entry.
Interesting. Very interesting.
I return everything exactly as I found it, because I was raised right.
Then, I make my way to the kitchen, because there is one place left where he might be hiding something.
The fridge.
The crisper drawer, specifically.
Because let’s be honest, if someone breaks into a house, it’s not to make a fucking salad.
I yank it open, ready to find something scandalous: cash, fake passports, maybe a knife with dried blood on it.
Instead?
Perfectly fresh vegetables.
I sigh.
Not a single moldy cucumber. Not a single half-rotten bag of lettuce shoved to the back like some kind of afterthought.
Disgustingly housebroken.
I’m half-ready to give up when my eyes land on something in the fridge door.
Strawberry milk.
I inhale sharply.
Oh. Oh, that’s perfect.
It’s not chocolate. It’s strawberry.
He’s so fucking unique.
A little thrill runs through me as I grab the carton.
I pour myself just a little because this is a special occasion.
And then I see them.
