"I haven't been here since that day," she said quietly.
"I know."
"The landlord's been calling. Wants to know if I'm keeping the lease or if he can rent it out." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Like I could ever live there again."
I killed the engine and turned to face her. "We get your things, and then you never have to come back. That's it."
She nodded, but her hands were clenched in her lap.
I reached over and covered one of her fists with my palm. Her skin was warm, soft. "I'm right here. Nothing's going to happen."
She looked down at our hands, then up at me. She nodded, putting on her bravest face.
"Okay," she said.
We got out and headed inside. The building was quiet, most people at work. I stayed close as we climbed to the third floor, close enough that my arm brushed hers with every step.
When we reached her door, Shanice stopped. Stared at the chipped paint and the number 3C like it was a death sentence.
"Key," I said.
She dug it out of her pocket with shaking hands. I took it from her, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.
The apartment was exactly like I'd seen in the photos. Worse, actually, because photos couldn't capture the stillness of it. Thewrongness. Furniture was overturned, cushions slashed. Books and papers scattered across the floor. A lamp lay shattered in the corner.
This was where they'd taken her. Where they'd dragged her out, terrified and fighting.
Rage surged through me, hot and vicious. I wanted to hunt down every single person involved and make them bleed.
"Jesus," Shanice whispered. She took a step inside, then another, her eyes sweeping over the destruction. "I knew it was bad, but seeing it again is different."
I followed her in, scanning the room out of habit. Checking corners, exits, any place someone could hide. The apartment was empty except for ghosts.
"What do you need?" I asked.
"Clothes. Photos. My laptop if it's still here." She moved toward the bedroom, picking her way through the debris. "Some books. Personal stuff."
I grabbed a few boxes she mentioned from the hall closet and followed her. The bedroom was less destroyed but still a mess. Drawers pulled out, clothes on the floor.
Shanice stood in the middle of it, arms wrapped around herself. We were going to need more help to get this place cleaned out and put back into good condition. I sent a quick text to one of my guys to get everything that we needed, including a truck.
"I used to love this place," she said. "It wasn't much, but it was mine. Now it just feels like something from a crime show."
"Because it is one."
She flinched, and I cursed myself. Wrong thing to say.
I set the boxes down and moved to her side. "We don't have to do this all at once. We can take breaks. Come back another day if you need to."
"No." She squared her shoulders, that defiance I'd come to recognize flaring to life. "I want it done. I want to be finished with this place."
She started pulling clothes from the closet, folding them with quick, precise movements. I helped, grabbing things from drawers and shelves. We worked in silence, filling boxes with the pieces of her life.
When we got to the nightstand, she paused. Opened the drawer and pulled out a framed photo.
"My mom," she said, showing it to me. A woman with Shanice's smile, her arm around a younger version of Shanice. "She died a few years back. Cancer."
I looked at the photo, at the joy in both their faces. "I'm sorry."
