Page 58 of Secret Obsession
With shaking hands, I call 9-1-1. I’ve had to call them before, but never for myself. There’s a click as it connects to an operator, and I explain as clearly as I can that there’s been a break-in. I don’t know if anything is missing.Probably. There’re damages—isn’t that enough?
“They’ll be here soon,” I tell him.
He nods and rights one of the kitchen chairs. I fidget by the doorway, unsure of what to do or where to stand. After a moment of silence, that seems to just be stretching longer, I head to my refrigerator. I pull the vodka from the freezer and soda water from the fridge. There’s stuff all over the floor. Broken ceramic and coffee from a mug leftover from the morning before. Glass in the sink.
Miles’ gaze is hot on me as I mix the drink in an ice-filled glass, adding a splash of cranberry juice on top. I take a sip and close my eyes. I set it down and grip the counter, but none of this feels real.
In a way, I’m not connected to any of it.
“Come sit down,” Miles says. “You’re going to step on glass.”
I grimace. I already feel the bite of something in the arch of my right foot. A piece of glass slicing through the sole of my boot makes sense, I guess. If I have the shittiest luck in the world. And judging from the state of my apartment…
I ignore it and walk to him. Each step on my right foot hurts worse, but I make it to the table and my own chair. I sink into it and lean back, taking another gulp of the vodka soda.
Vodka gives me more of a fuzzy feeling. Unlike whiskey, which sits like smoke in my chest, or tequila, that burns. I like that vodka shaves down my edges.
His gaze remains steady on me.
“Why are you still here?” I ask him.
His lips quirk. “Did you think I was going to leave?”
“Yes.” It’s honest. I did expect him to leave, multiple times.
“I’m not going to.”
It’s not my fault I don’t believe him. It’s just been proven, time and again, that people leave.
We lapse into silence until the police arrive. Miles hears them open the door downstairs, their voices carrying up to us, and he steps into the hall to meet them.
I take that opportunity to lift my foot and inspect the bottom. There’s a sliver of glass between the treads of my boot, and I tug it out in one quick motion.
The pain is almost blinding. White spots flicker at my vision as agony lances up my leg.
“Oh my God, Willow,” Miles says, but it sounds really far away. “We’ll go to the hospital when we’re done.”
I’m too busy staring at the amount of blood on the shard of glass. The shard that’s way bigger than I anticipated.
“Ma’am—” The police officer stops. “Is this your apartment?”
I drop the piece of glass on the table. “Yes.”
My head is woozy. I blink slowly and reach for my drink. In the background, Miles is spinning some tale. Or maybe it’s the truth that he’s giving them. Some of it anyway. That we were here this morning and then left to meet a friend.
I hear Steele’s name.
A lie, then.
“Willow.”
I run my finger along the edge of the bloodstained glass. It still has a bite to it. Sharp little fucker.
“Willow.” Miles grabs my hand and yanks it off the table. His palm connects with mine, his fingers pressing into my wrist. “We’re going to urgent care. They’ll look at your foot.”
Right.
He picks me up. Not over the shoulder, which seems to be his favorite way to transport me. But nicely. Arm under the back of my knees, one around my back. The police follow us down, and I vaguely catch that they want to know if there’s anything missing.
