I didn't hear him go—just woke to find the loft empty, the air still holding the ghost of his presence.
I made coffee I barely drank and paced the place like a caged animal. We hadn't resolved anything. He'd shut down and I'd retreated into my own silence, too stubborn to back down but too afraid to push further. The kiss hung between us, unavoidable but unmentioned.
I kept replaying our conversation.
By midmorning, I'd worn a groove in the concrete floor and was considering calling him to apologize and beg when my phone buzzed. I almost ignored the call but when I glanced at the screen, I saw Katrina's name.
"Kimmy?" Her voice came through controlled but tight. "Are you busy?"
"Not particularly." If you didn't count the strange witness-protection-vibe confinement. "Why?"
"Someone vandalized my place last night. Thank God, neighbors heard the noise and called the police right away. I just got off the phone with the detective. I already filed the report, but they want someone to meet an officer at the house so we can document the interior damage. It'll help with the investigation and the insurance claim."
My stomach dropped and my head was spinning. "Vandalized how?"
"I only got a few pictures from my neighbors." I heard her take a breath, fighting to stay composed. "I can't really tell how bad it is just yet. I wanted to see if you could stop by and talk to the police and check it out for me. Jazz is on his way back to LA right now. But his flight arrives after six." Another breath. "I'm sorry to ask. I know you're?—"
"I'm going. Don't worry. Just tell me who I'm meeting there and I'll take care of it."
I didn't think. Didn't pack anything or leave a note. Just changed intomy jeans and a hoodie, grabbed my ID and a credit card and was out the door before my brain could catch up with my body.
I walked briskly for a few blocks before getting an Uber.
The drive to Katrina's neighborhood stretched for almost an hour. I kept my shaking hands mostly buried in my hoodie's pockets, not wanting to freak out the driver, with the exception of the times when my phone buzzed with text updates from Katrina.
The Uber turned onto the tree-lined street—the kind of neighborhood where nothing bad ever happened. My chest tightened as we got closer and my sister's house came into view.
"Oh my God," I whispered as I stepped out onto the quiet sidewalk.
The front windows were smashed. Graffiti covered the brick in violent red spray paint—obscenities I didn't want to read too carefully. The decorative front yard gate was bent inward like someone had rammed it. Planters lay overturned, soil spilled across the lawn. The front door hung slightly ajar, and I could see darkness beyond it.
Officer Davidson was already waiting outside when I arrived, a middle-aged man with tired eyes and a clipboard. He walked me through the exterior first—documenting the spray paint, the broken windows, the bent gate. His camera clicked methodically as he photographed each piece of damage.
"Any idea who might have done this?" he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer was no.
"None," I lied.
We moved inside, and it was worse than the exterior suggested. Furniture overturned, picture frames smashed, Katrina's kitchen ransacked. It wasn't robbery—nothing seemed to be missing, just destroyed. Deliberately. Methodically.
The message was clear:We know where your family lives.
I felt sick.
Officer Davidson continued documenting while I pulled out my phone to call Katrina.
"How bad?" she asked immediately.
I switched to video and walked her through the house room by room. I watched her face on the screen as she took in the damage—the anger, the violation, the fear.
After the call ended, I realized I'd left the safe house in such a panic I hadn't brought my burner phone. The one phone Seven could reach me on. The one that mattered.
An older couple from next door who reported the incident stopped bywhile Officer Davidson was finishing his report. They brought food and spoke in hushed tones about how awful it was, how safe the neighborhood usually was.
I hadn't been to my sister's place in so long, I couldn't remember their names. The woman patted my arm and offered to keep an eye on the house while Katrina was away. I thanked them, numb.
By the time Officer Davidson left, the sun was starting to angle lower. I ordered a cleaning crew—they'd arrive in a couple hours—and spent the time doing another walk-through to assess what needed replacing and setting some of the things that weren't damaged much aside. Most of Katrina's personal items that mattered were intact, just scattered. Her jewelry box was untouched. Her laptop, still in her home office, locked in one of the cabinets that they somehow had missed.
Nothing was stolen. It was all destruction for its own sake.
