I turn back toward the living room and that’s when I see it.
Her old backpack.
I cross the room and snatch it up. It’s lighter than it should be. The zipper is already half-open. I shove my hand inside and find clothes. A knife sheath. Some useless shit.
Not the money.
Seventeen thousandgone.
For one savage second, all I see is red.
She took it. She planned this. She left my house, lied to my face, took my car, took her money, and ran.
My hand tightens around the backpack so hard the seams strain. I want to tear the whole fucking place apart. Put my fist through the wall. Rip the door off its hinges. Smash every breakable thing in sight until the room looks like what just happened in my chest.
I told her.
Neveralone again.
And she still fucking ran.
“Fuck.”
The word comes out low and lethal.
I throw the backpack across the room. It hits the counter and falls in a heap.
My phone rings.
Pietro.
I answer so fast I nearly crack the screen. “What.”
“We found the car.”
The rage in me holds, hot and violent. “And?”
“Parking garage downtown. Third level.” A pause. “Her phone though...”
Something in his tone cuts through enough to make me go still.
“What about it?”
“It’s crushed.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “Crushed how?”
“Like somebody stomped it.”
The room tilts slightly. Not enough to lose balance. Enough to make me recalibrate.
My eyes drag over the apartment again. No struggle here.
No blood.
Bag left behind but money taken. My pulse doesn’t slow. It just changes shape.
Maybe she ran.
