Page 60 of Brutal
Always.
Still, I stand there for a second, staring at the handle like maybe I’m wrong. Like maybe I rushed out earlier, distracted, thinking about Samson Vexley and the way his body might feel against mine…
No.
I don’t make mistakes like that.
Not about my safety. Not about my space.
A cold awareness spreads through me as I push the door open. I step inside and close the door behind me without taking my eyes off the room.
At first glance, everything looks exactly the same.
Couch. Table. Desk.
Nothing overturned. Nothing broken. Nothing missing.
Then I see it.
The drawer in my desk. It’s barely open. Half an inch, maybe less. But I didn’t leave it like that.
I look around, sharpening my gaze. The book on the coffee table is shifted slightly off center. The throw blanket across the back of the couch is folded wrong.
My laptop is where I left it but angled differently.
The place isn’t trashed. No. This was done methodically. It was searched, with everything placed back just so. That feeling when you’re not sure if anything has been touched because clearly everything has.
My stomach tightens.
Whoever was here didn’t rush. They took their time.
I move to the desk and open the drawer. Everything is there. Pens. Notebooks. Receipts.
I close the drawer slowly.
Then I scan the rest of the apartment again. Nothing is gone. Whoever was here wasn’t looking for something specific.
No.
They were checking. They wanted to know what I know.
A chill slides down my spine.
I move to the kitchen, grab a glass, fill it with water, and take a long swallow.
I brush my arms, trying to ease the feeling that microscopic insects are crawling all over me.
Someone stepped into my space. Left without a trace.
I set the glass down.
The contractor.
The lock.
The timing.
Victor Halstead.
