He came here.
I know it in my bones. Alexander came here after my apartment and did this.
There’s a first aid kit torn apart on the counter. Cut strips of cloth and towels and blood everywhere.
I’m trying to make sense of it when the door clicks shut behind me. And when I turn, there is a man I don’t know, giving me an equally bewildered and annoyed expression.
He brings a phone to his ear with a leather-gloved hand and speaks.
“Small problem. There’s a woman here.”
I can’t hear the voice on the other end of the line, but it could only be one person.
The man in front of me rakes his eyes over my body and describes me in a clinical way. A nonhuman way. People do this when they need to disconnect from a situation. When they see the person in front of them as a potential threat.
The knife is still in my hand, clutched at my side, and he doesn’t know I have it.
The person on the other line speaks, and the guy listens.
He’s a foot soldier. And he has his instructions now.
He hangs up and moves to pocket the phone. His next move will be for the gun tucked into his side, maybe. Either that, or he will try to strangle me. The more likely scenario since it’s quieter and not as messy.
But he won’t do either if he doesn’t get the opportunity.
I launch myself at him and plunge the knife into his gut.
He grunts and stumbles back, and we are both reaching for his gun. He’s in shock, and I’m faster.
In the seconds it takes him to comprehend his loss, I have it pressed to his temple. And what do you know, it’s a fucking Glock, and thank you, Rory Brodrick for imparting your knowledge.
“On the couch,” I say. “Now.”
He doesn’t argue. And I’m not here to dick around. I don’t know this guy, and technically he hasn’t done anything to me. So the minute he falls onto the couch, I scramble out the front door and make a beeline down the hallway.
When I spot Whiskey, I scoop him up into my arms as well.
He cries, and I nod.
“I know. Rory’s going to kill me.”
“Scarlett.”
Rory finds me in his bed, wrapped up inside of his blankets burrito style.
He sits down beside me, but doesn’t touch me.
Whiskey chooses this precise moment to let himself be heard with a faint meow next to my pillow.
“What the bleeding hell is that?” Rory asks.
“I brought you a present.”
He’s quiet, so I reach out to touch his hand. It’s warm and strong and solid… and tense. I ran out on him last night and I’m certain a part of him would just like to be done with this whole mess already.
The only way I know to get what I want is manipulation.
It isn’t fair to him.
