The words settle in my chest like lead.
By the time they let me go, it’s dark. I refuse the offer of a patrol car and walk the rest of the way home—head up, even though my knees are still shaking.
My building looks normal from the outside. Lights on. Lobby empty.
Inside, everything feels off.
The air smells faintly of cologne that isn’t mine. The faintest trace of cigarette smoke—stale, masculine, unfamiliar.
I set my keys down quietly, heart thudding, and scan the apartment. Nothing broken. Nothing missing. Just wrong.
I walk the perimeter like it’s a crime scene—kitchen, living room, bedroom. Drawers closed but slightly misaligned. The closet door opened an inch wider than I left it.
Whoever was here didn’t take anything.
They just wanted me to know they could.
My phone buzzes.
Casey:
You okay? I saw the news about the shooting. Please tell me you weren’t near it.
My fingers shake as I type.
Me:
I’m fine. Just tired.
Casey:
You sure?
Me:
Yeah. Don’t worry.
It’s a lie. I’m anything but fine.
I turn off the lights, but the darkness feels worse. I pull the curtains tighter, slide the deadbolt across, and sit on the edge of my bed, still dressed.
My mind replays the sound of that gunshot—how close it was, how deliberate it felt.
Someone leaked my name.
Someone erased my files.
And someone just tried to put a bullet into me.
This isn’t about politics anymore.
It’s personal.
I grab the USB from the lockbox again and tuck it into the inside lining of my coat, sewing it closed with shaky fingers. My mother always said to trust my instincts—they’ve saved me more times than luck ever did.
I pour a glass of wine I won’t drink and sit by the window, watching the street below.
Cars pass. A man walks his dog. The city looks unchanged, but it feels different—like it’s watching back.
