There's a book on the coffee table, a paperback I've been meaning to read. I've been using my bookmark to hold my place about halfway through. This morning it was on the left side of the table, next to my water glass.
Now it's on the right side.
And the bookmark is gone.
Pulse hammering in my throat, I cross to the table and pick up the book. I flip through the pages. The bookmark—a laminated photo of me and Vincent from before he died—isn't there.
I check the floor, under the couch, between the cushions.
It's gone.
Someone moved this book. Someone took my bookmark. Each breath feels measured, controlled. I walk toward the bedroom and push the door open.
The room looks normal. The bed is made—well, as made as I ever make it. The clothes from yesterday are draped over the chair in the corner. The dresser drawers are closed.
But the closet door is open.
I never leave the closet door open. It's a small apartment and an open door makes the space feel even smaller, so I always close it.
Now it's standing open.
I walk over slowly and pull it all the way open. My clothes hang in their usual messy arrangement. The shoes are scattered on the floor. The boxes of old stuff sit on the shelf above.
Nothing looks disturbed.
But someone had to have opened this door... didn't they?
I back out of the closet and sit down hard on the edge of the bed. Now, I’m sure. Someone's been in my apartment. The window curtain repositioned, the book moved to the other side of the table, the bookmark missing, the closet door left open when I always close it. They're small things, things I could explain away individually—maybe I'm misremembering, maybe I moved the book myself this morning and forgot, maybe the wind shifted the curtain even though the window was locked. But all of them together? That feels like more than coincidence.
Or maybe I'm losing it. Maybe exhaustion has finally caught up with me and I'm seeing patterns where there aren't any.
I should call the police. That's what you do when someone breaks into your apartment. I should file a report, get new locks, stay somewhere else for a few nights.
But what would I tell them? Someone moved my book and opened my closet? They'd think I was losing it, and I don't know that they're wrong.
I've felt this for weeks—that sensation of being watched, of not being alone even when I am. I've been dismissing it, telling myself it's grief and exhaustion from losing Vincent.
My instincts have been screaming at me.
I stand up and sweep through the apartment, checking every room, every closet, every corner, looking for anything else that's out of place, any other evidence.
In the bathroom, the hand towel is crooked. In the kitchen, one of the chairs is pulled out slightly from the table.
In the living room, there's the scent I smelled before I fell asleep last night.
Luca. Cologne.
I think about the mugging, about the guy who grabbed my purse right when Luca was nearby. The coffee date where he knew things about me I never told him. The way he showed up at exactly the right moment.
He knew my coffee order. He knew things about me. He knew I'd be walking home at that exact time on that exact street.
He knew I own a black dress. What if it wasn't coincidence? What if he's been following me? The thought solidifies into cold certainty, and I need to know.
I grab my laptop from the bedroom and open a private browser window. I've googled him before and found nothing, but I wasn't looking hard enough. I wasn't asking the right questions.
I try every combination I can think of—Luca Santoro, Luca Santoro New York, Luca Santoro Manhattan, Luca Santoro construction, Luca Santoro problem solver.
Nothing.
