Page 86 of Deep (Chicago Underground 8)
It was a relief when I reached the modest apartment building where I lived. It was close enough to campus that a number of students lived here, often grad students.
I climbed the outside steps, to be greeted by Misty. She was a gray-brown tabby who had hung around looking pitiful until I agreed to feed her. Sometimes I got her to come inside my apartment, and we had watched a few episodes of Agents of SHEILD together with her on my lap. But she was wild at heart, and she wanted to be free to wander the world while I was in class.
She meowed up at me plaintively and twined her slender body between my ankles.
I frowned at her bowl, which was half-full with dry food. Our routine was for me to put food out at night, usually just enough for her to eat. Which meant the bowl should be empty. “Are you feeling okay?” I murmured. “You didn’t eat your food.”
She just meowed in response.
I unlocked the door, and the cat rushed into the dark apartment. Strange.
I followed more slowly, dropping my tote bag with my notebook and tablet by the door. I headed to the kitchen and opened the fridge, thinking of grabbing an apple to tide me over until I could figure out a proper dinner.
Then I stopped, the air-conditioned air dry against my skin.
Something was different in the space. And Misty was not tripping me up.
“Misty?” I called, already feeling shy and a little scared.
There was a rustle from somewhere, and I tensed up. My gaze snapped to the pepper spray that I kept in my bag, which was now by the door. Too far away. I could run out of the door. I could scream.
“Hello, Ella,” came a voice from across the room.
*
MY EYES WIDENED. I had searched the corners of every dark alley, but not my own apartment. Slowly his silhouette formed—seated in the chair by the far wall. Philip.
The thunder of my pulse was almost as loud as my voice. “How did you get in?”
A soft laugh. “Is that all you want to ask me?”
God, I had so many questions. So many demands. So many things I would say if I let myself. I missed you. I want you. Don’t leave again. “What did you do to my cat?”
“I fed her.”
I blinked, not quite imagining Philip in a three-piece suit pouring cat food into a bowl. “Why?”
He stood, and the cat jumped off his lap—clearly not thrilled with the fact that he had decided to move. She must enjoy his lap more than mine, and I couldn’t really blame her. His lap was a pretty great place to be.
I felt silly and vulnerable with the fridge open, revealing a handful of fruits and a half gallon of milk—not much else. So I shut the door and immediately realized my mistake. That faint light had been the only thing letting me see. Now I was in the dark.
And yet I could see him approach me, feel him approach me.
He stood in front of me for a long moment, and I soaked up his presence, the masculine scent of him, his heat. Two fingers lifted my chin, and I stared up into the shadow of him. I searched out corners in alleyways, and I searched out corners in him now—looking for threats.
“Did you get my postcards?”
They were stacked up beside my bed, and I would touch their edges, imagining I felt his imprint there. “You’ve been traveling.”
Every postcard had come from Chicago before. Now they came from all over the country. All over the world. Europe first. Then South America. Japan. I could hardly imagine him flying to all those places with the speed that he did.
“I’ve been studying,” he said s
oftly.
“Studying what?”
“People. Like you.”
