Page 186 of Secret Obsession
Miles takes the phone back and hangs up, stuffing it back in his pocket.
“I love you,” he says.
“You’re still yelling,” I whisper.
“I can’t hear you.”
I smile. It makes it easier to say, “I love you, too.”
He grins. Oh, so he heard that?
“Asshole,” I add. But my smile widens, too.
* * *
Greyson and Steele arrive to help survey the damage. In this case, another freaking body in my house. Although I guess this area is technically not even mine, so… that’s better, right?
I stay on the staircase with Miles while they do something downstairs. I keep casting furtive glances, then outright staring, at my landlord’s apartment door. With all the hustle and bustle of activity, it seems strange that she hasn’t come out.
Finally, Miles rises and knocks on her door. He listens hard for a moment, then shrugs and tries the knob.
The door swings open easily.
We exchange a look, and I hop up. We walk into the apartment slowly. I automatically reach for the back of Miles’ shirt, fisting it and keeping myself close to him. Her apartment is stuffed to the brim, bordering on hoarding tendencies. The pathway into the kitchen and living space is narrow, hemmed in by stacks of books and boxes, side tables loaded with bits and bobs. Even two trash bags, tied off, lean against the wall by the door.
“I didn’t realize it was so bad.” I frown.
We step into the kitchen, and my heart sinks.
There’s blood on the floor.
“Don’t touch anything,” Miles calls back to me.
I nod once. We skirt the blood and continue on. Past the island, there’s a kitchen table with four chairs. It’s covered in mail and newspapers. Beyond that is a sliding glass door that leads to a small, unimpressive backyard. It’s always been overgrown, since I moved in, but seeing it in tandem with the apartment makes me nauseous.
Should I have seen the signs?
Offered to help? Mow the lawn or whatever?
“There,” Miles whispers, pointing to the living room. “She’s in there.”
We round the corner and both stop.
She’s dead.
There’s blood on her shirt. Her head is leaned back, her mouth open wide.
“He shot her,” Miles growls.
I tug him backward.
“This is a crime scene.”
“I don’t know how to explain this,” Miles says, his voice tinged with desperation. He whirls around and grabs my shoulders. “I don’t know how they won’t spin this into something it’s not.”
I meet his wild eyes. “It’ll be okay.”
I take his hand and lead him back outside. All the way, this time, to the front steps. I sit him down and go to the top of the basement stairs, calling for Greyson and Steele. When they don’t respond, I go down. And I find that nothing at all has changed. Not the position of the body, not the tape I left on the floor, not the blood pooling under him.
