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My heart rushes. Butterflies flurry in my stomach. “No, I’m trying to steal your pizza.” I quip, feeling lighter being in his presence.
My stomach growls when the aroma of melted cheese and sauce drifts from the box. He turns to go back inside, letting the door close behind me. I follow him. It’s the exact layout as ours, only his furniture doesn’t look like he bought it at a flea market. The place is also clean, spotless, a hint of bleach in the air. He also has curtains. Lucky bastard.
“Drink?” he asks, holding up a bottle of wine. My mouth salivates at the sight.
I nod enthusiastically, and he chuckles before pouring me an extra tall glass. Untangling my scarf, I place it on one of the stools at his breakfast bar.
“Long day?” he asks, giving me the once over. His gaze feels intimate, like he sees through my clothes to the flesh beneath. I squirm a little and recheck my cell phone. “You have somewhere to be?”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. I have some time.” I have nowhere to be.
He nods and places a plate in front of me. I help myself to a slice and try not to look giddy at the sight of his meat lovers pizza. A guy after my own heart. “Your place is looking nice.” I smile. Everything looks expensive. “So, what is it you do, Mr. Clark?” I bite into the slice and wait for his answer. When he remains silent, I flick my eyes up and find him watching me. Does he realize it’s not polite to stare at people while they’re eating?
“Everything okay?” I ask, running a hand down my hair. Do I look a mess? I’ve been at work all day. Crap, I should have changed, brushed my hair.
“Sorry.” He shakes his head. “As in do for a Profession?”
“Yes.” I nod, licking the oil from my fingers.
“Freelance photography.”
I quirk a brow. There isn’t one picture on the bare white walls. I wonder if he’s still in school. He doesn’t look much older than me. I open my mouth to ask when the door buzzer sounds, interrupting me.
He glares over at the front door, his nostrils flaring.
“Sorry. I’m not expecting anyone.” He frowns, going over to the intercom. I check my cell phone. It’s past eight. The door downstairs will be key and intercom access only.
“Hello?” he barks through the intercom. Ours doesn’t work. It’s yet another thing we need to complain about.
“It’s Detective Hernandez,” the familiar voice says back.
“I’m busy right now. Can this wait?” His tone is clipped and terse.
“It will just take a minute.”
He slams his palm against the wall, dipping his head to his toes, making me startle.
“I can leave. I should be going anyway,” I offer, slipping from the stool, a disappointing cloud floating over me.
He looks between the pizza and me, shaking his head. I notice his quick glance to the bedroom door. Unlike ours, his is a one-bedroom apartment. “No. Eat. I’ll go get rid of him.” He swings open the door and disappears behind it, slamming it shut.
My bladder screams at me for drinking the wine too quickly. I look around for the bathroom, hoping it’s in the same place as ours. As I reach for the handle, I hear Charlotte's voice muffled in the room next to me. My heart rate quickens. What the hell? I push open that door and come face to face with an almost empty void, all barring the far wall covered in photos and newspaper clippings, and a bed just above mine downstairs.
“Stay out of there or she’ll kill me.” I hear Charlotte's voice again so clear, it’s as if she’s in the room whispering. The sound is coming from the vent. I’m about to close the door and go down to kick Charlotte’s ass for being in my room when one of the images gains my attention.
My feet shuffle forward as I fight back tears. My nostrils flare, and my breathing becomes strained.
It’s me. When I was a child. Taken by the reporter who covered Jack’s disappearance. There are hundreds of articles about his father all cut out of the newspaper and pinned to the wall. My scars itch and burn when I see one of me at my mother’s funeral, black rose in hand. I didn’t know there were reporters there that day. I move to another image. Red circles around victim’s faces just like at the coffee shop. My hands tremble. I shift backwards, my legs working on their own accord. Wrapping a hand around my waist to stop from throwing up, I hit a wall and turn, stumbling away. Clark stands there, his brow furrowed, his mouth set in a hard line.
“You shouldn’t snoop,” he admonishes, and the world around me dims.
Oh god, who are you?
