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I understand her shock. It rattles in my ribcage, making it hard to breathe.
Cove Harbor is a one-sheriff kind of town where nothing bad ever happens. There are the occasional fistfights between drunk frat boys on the beach, but beyond that, it’s overwhelmingly safe. We walk home alone at all hours of the night and never have to concern ourselves over whether there is someone lurking in the shadows waiting to attack. I’m not sure anyone here even locks their door at night; I know Rhea didn’t until we started rooming together. The thought of someone bringing a knife anywhere in Cove Harbor is wild enough, let alone someone actually pulling it.
My mind flashes back to the bathroom and the person I was sure was standing there watching me. It was easy to dismiss the incident as my mind and eyes teaming up to play tricks on me when everything had been normal, but now that I know someone was down there pulling knives on people, I can’t shake the feeling that maybe they were in the bathroom with me. But to what end? Nothing happened, so if someone had been in there, what did they hope to achieve by it?
“Was anyone hurt?” Wes demands, looking between Rhea and Ryan. The way he just assumes control of the situation is both comforting and oddly attractive. I assume it’s the med student in him, prepared to take control in an emergency.
“I don’t know.” Rhea shakes her head helplessly, turning to Ryan, who throws his hands up in frustration.
“I didn’t see anything.”
“Stay here.” Wes warns, unlocking the door again.
“Wait!” I hiss. “You’re going down there?”
“If someone is hurt, I have a responsibility to help. Stay here.” He repeats.
Wes disappears down the stairwell and into the suddenly unsettling quiet of the club below. I turn my ear toward the hall, listening out for anything that could indicate he may need help.
“How do you have a key to this place?” Ryan asks, looking Rhea up and down with unveiled suspicion.
“I was dating the guy who lived here last summer. He gave me a key so that I didn’t have to wait up for him all the time.”
“And where is he now?” Unimpressed, Ryan looks around like he expects someone is going to pop out of the pantry. Though it’s empty, the apartment clearly isn’t entirely abandoned. All of Nick’s stuff is still as he left it, including the framed photo of him and Rhea sitting atop the TV stand.
“Jail.” Rhea snaps, waving a hand at him. “Who cares?”
“I do.” Ryan bites back, matching her irritation word for word. “That’s why I’m asking.”
I wait with bated breath for anything to come out of the silence, but there are no sounds to be heard other than Ryan’s mumbling about how he should know these sorts of things about the woman he’s seeing.
Sirens wail to life in the distance and Rhea jumps a little at the sudden noise, grabbing my arm.
I turn to find her frozen in place, waiting for a sign that everything is all clear. My best friend is great at taking charge in most situations, but her upbringing has sheltered her to the wicked reality of the world. We balance each other, in that way.
“Wes?” I call, cracking the door just enough to let my voice carry downstairs. Only silence greets me a few beats, and then I hear my own name called back to me from the foot of the stairs.
“Claire? You may want to see this.”
Rhea shakes her head back and forth adamantly, not ready to abandon our hiding space.
“Is everything okay?” I ask. Please God, don’t make us exit through a crime scene. Blood has always made me a little faint, and even more so when it belongs to someone else. And with the adrenaline and alcohol cocktail roiling in me, I’m not sure I can handle seeing anything too violent.
“Everything’s fine.” Wes calls back. “I promise.”
I let go of a little breath and pull the door open enough to see that the staircase is empty. I descend it cautiously, my eyes sweeping over every inch in front of me just in case someone drops from the ceiling and tackles me. For all I know, we’re living the start of the zombie apocalypse right now.
Despite Ryan’s objections, Rhea follows right behind me, so I reach a hand behind me and grab her wrist, not sure whose benefit it’s for.
Wes is crouched down looking at something on the ground, but he straightens when he sees us turn the corner, holding something in the air for us to see. I’m vaguely aware of Ryan, a very safe distance behind us as we study the scene.
The four of us are alone in the bar. Though you can tell it was evacuated in a hurry thanks to the spilled drinks, shattered glass, and even a pair of stilettos abandoned at the bar, there are no signs of blood on the ground, no body. “Looks like your new friend may have been the one wielding the knife.”
My eyes fall on the flask in Wes’ hand. It could belong to any number of people; There’s nothing remarkable about it. But it could also be the same one that belonged to the man who sent me a drink. The Blue Russian.
“Your friend?” Rhea demands, arms crossed under her chest nervously. All traces of her buzz are gone.
“Some guy sent me a drink.” I shrug. It isn’t exactly unusual to have a drink sent to me, particularly when Rhea is nearby. But it is weird that he’d deliberately made sure both Wes and I had seen him. And that’s to say nothing of the bathroom incident, which feels both too random to be connected and too unusual not to be.
