Page 64 of Hunter or Hunted

A fleece throw blanket sunk into the seats of the sofa.

This had been her space.

She had sat on this sofa. Had fluffed the pillows, and folded the blanket, and curled up with her precious little cat.

She’d made this house a home, and he shat all over it.

Had he at least cared for her cat? She’d never talked about her pets, but I’d seen something in her eyes when she petted Honey. Longing. Grief.

I smelled the little bugger, but no sign of him yet.

Had Evan set him outside? Had he abandoned Delilah’s cat because she’d abandoned him?

Had he done something worse?

Teeth gritted, I took a glance into the kitchen. Aside from the sink overflowing with dishes, nothing seemed relevant there either.

Off to the edge of the living room, a short hallway stretched on.

Memories flashed again.

The layout of this place was different, but the vibe, the energy, reminded me so much of the box I’d shared with Troy.

Box. Not a home. Four walls that kept the rain out but had seen so many storms.

More images flashed in the holes of the drywall as I walked down the hall. For a second, it was Evan throwing his fist through it. The next one was higher up, right around eye level. That flash through my mind’s eye was the back of Delilah’s head slamming through it.

On my right, another doorway stood. Beyond it, a bed on a cheap metal frame faced a dresser with a TV on top.

The sheets, yellowed with sweat stains, matched the mound of floral blankets at the foot.

More linens lay on the floor. Nothing hung from the rack in the closet. Just broken hangers above a floor impossible to decipher beneath the clothes.

The only relevant thing about that room was the hole-riddled door that led inside, barely held on by the hinges.

To the left, another door.

This one in mint condition.

With gloved fingers, I twisted the knob.

Cleanest room so far.

A computer sat on a black melamine desk. Joint roaches lay about, ashes scattered between them. Soda cans poured out of the trash can in the corner. I could make out the floor though—deep cherry laminate.

On the farthest wall, the longest one, custom shelves jutted from the green wall. Each one, hand-stained a deep espresso, housed a pair of shoes in acrylic stands.

Except for one.

Third row from the bottom, fifth from the left corner, the acrylic stand still sat proudly. But no shoes.

I slid my phone from my pocket and snapped a photo.

Everything else in this house lived beneath a sooty layer of dust and smog. Not that shoe collection, though. Even the black shelves glinted in the sun that trickled in from the window.

All Delilah’s plants? Dead. The pillows she’d handpicked, the blankets she’d cuddled under? Balled up and tossed around the room.

But he made the conscientious effort to dust and polish those damn shelves.