“I know.” Rick turned back toward the door and put his hand on the handle, then paused again. Rick looked over his shoulder. “Whatever you’re thinking,” he said, “don’t do it alone.”
Allen’s mouth trembled. “Don’t do it alone? What am I supposed to do with that?”
“You keep breathing,” Rick said. “And you remember I’m not the enemy.”
Allen let out a small, broken sound. “Not the enemy? You murdered three people. I should be reporting you to the police.”
Rick’s gaze stayed on him. “I meant what I said last night,” Rick added. “You’re the only real thing I have.”
Allen flinched. “Rick…” He shook his head, then staggered over to a chair and sat down heavily.
“I’ll be back.” Rick left, closing the door behind him. He would be back because Allen was his, and he wasn’t letting him go.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The apartment was quiet after Rick left. Allen sat in the chair and listened, but he couldn’t hear anything beyond the fridge and the traffic outside. The phone Rick had stored his list in sat on the counter where Allen had put it down. It looked harmless, which made it worse because Allen knew what it contained.
He got up and turned the tap on and ran cold water over his hands. He kept them under it longer than he needed, then shut it off and leaned on the counter with his head down. He tried to slow his breathing, tried to get his head to settle, but nothing seemed to work.
He paced from the kitchen to the living room and back, then stopped in the doorway, hands hanging at his sides because he didn’t know what to do with them. The thought of calling the police came and went in his head, but he never got any further than thinking about it. He couldn’t pick up the phone to make the call, knowing the type of questions he’d be asked.
Where did you get it? How do you know him? When did you find it? Why didn’t you call straight away?
He looked at his hands again and felt sick. He’d held the phone. He’d touched it enough that he could already hear how it would sound if he tried to explain it.
His stomach rolled, and he made it to the bathroom, dropping to his knees and vomiting into the toilet. There wasn’t much in him, but his body kept trying. When he stopped, he sat back on his heels with his head tipped forward, breathing through his mouth and shaking.
Rick’s voice came back in his head, calm as ever. You didn’t do anything wrong.
Allen let out a short laugh that didn’t sound like him. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stayed there, staring at the tiles, trying to figure out what wrong even meant now. He’d been sleeping with a murderer.
Back in the kitchen, Allen tried to eat. He made fresh toast and forced a couple of bites down before throwing the rest away. In the living room, he turned on the TV, then turned it off again the second he heard the news jingle start. He checked his phone more times than he wanted to admit.
Nothing from Rick. That should have been good, but somehow it wasn’t.
He sat on the couch for a while and stared at his laptop without opening it. He didn’t need the screen to tell him anything. He already knew what he’d read. He already knew what he’d seen on Rick’s phone. He already knew how calm Rick had been while saying it out loud. Saying how he’d murdered three people.
After a while, he stood up and picked the phone up again because he couldn’t stand seeing it on the counter. Holding it felt wrong. He carried it to the bedroom and shoved it into his sock drawer under a pile he kept meaning to throw out. It was a stupid hiding place, but he didn’t have a better one. He shut thedrawer hard and stood there for a second with his hand still on the handle.
Allen laughed. “Out of sight, out of mind.” He swallowed hard. “If only,” he whispered.
Work the next day was a blur. Allen answered calls and used the same phrases he always used. He kept his voice steady, his tone polite, like he’d slept and eaten and everything was normal. His hands moved on autopilot—typing, clicking, writing notes—while his head kept dragging him back to the same words and the same names.
Cass. Graham. Elliot.
It hit him at random points. He’d be mid-sentence with a customer and his throat would tighten. He’d have to swallow and keep going as if nothing was happening. The worst part was that he could do it. He could sound fine while he was falling apart inside.
Halfway through the morning, he muted his headset and leaned forward with his elbows on the desk, eyes shut, breathing shallowly, trying to find some calm in his chaotic mind.
One of his coworkers glanced over. “Are you alright?”
Allen opened his eyes and forced a smile. “Yeah. I didn’t sleep well.”
“Same,” she said, and went back to her screen.
Allen nodded, then took the next call.
An hour later he took a bathroom break he didn’t need and locked himself in a stall. He stared at the door and tried not to think about what would happen if someone knocked on his apartment door. He tried not to imagine an unknown number calling. He kept waiting for something to happen that would make a decision for him, but nothing came.
