"Already did. Walker..." Eric paused. "I’m going to keep digging."
I paused, remembering those goddamned bruises. "What about her medical history?"
"Haven't looked, but I can."
"Thanks, Eric." I ended the call, setting my phone down carefully before I gave in to the urge to hurl it against the wall.
But the pieces of Lottie's life were clicking together with sickening clarity. Lottie's nervousness, her lack of resources, the way she clung to that teddy bear like it was her only friend in the world. Her uncle—her supposed guardian—had stolen everything from her, possibly even killed her parents although that while had been very convenient for him, might be a stretch. But he'd definitely cast her out once he'd secured her inheritance.
And last night, she'd nearly been attacked again because she couldn't afford to live somewhere safe.
Sunny's Mart was even more depressing in daylight—a squat, faded building with bars on the windows and a flickering neon sign missing half its letters. The parking lot was littered with trash, and a group of teenagers loitered near the entrance, sharing a cigarette.
I parked across the street, watching the store entrance while trying to look inconspicuous in a neighborhood where my SUV already stood out like a sore thumb. After twenty minutes, I spotted her through the window—a flash of blonde hair behind the counter.
My chest tightened at the sight of her. Even from this distance, I could see the bruise on her cheek, dark against her pale skin, and I got out, heading nearer to the window to see her properly but making sure she didn't see me. I watched as she moved slowly, as if every motion caused her pain, but she smiled at customers, counted change, and bagged their goods.
She was working. Functioning. Surviving.
I should have felt relieved, but instead, unease crawled up my spine. Something wasn't right. Her movements seemed off—a slight tremor in her hands, the way she leaned against the counter when she thought no one was watching.
I debated going inside, but what would I say? "Hey, I've been sitting outside stalking you because I can't stop thinking about you"? That would definitely make things better.
Instead, I headed back to my car, started the engine, and pulled away, driving to her apartment building. Paint peeled from the exterior like scabs, revealing crumbling brick underneath. Three of the mailboxes in the lobby hung open, their locks broken. The stairwell smelled of urine and stale cigarettes, forcing me to breathe through my mouth as I climbed to the third floor.
I found her apartment easily enough—3B, at the end of a dimly lit hallway. I stood there for a moment, but I already knew she wasn't home. She was still at Sunny's, ringing up cigarettes and lottery tickets while looking like death warmed over.
I shouldn't be doing this. Breaking and entering wasn't exactly the best way to build trust. But concern overrode my better judgment as I pulled out my lock picks. The crap lock took less than ten seconds to open. I slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind me, and noticed the huge-ass bolt on the inside that looked new. I stared at it, feeling slightly sick because that obviously meant she didn’t feel safe in her home.
The apartment was tiny, just one room with a bathroom off to the side. A twin bed with a thin blanket occupied one corner, a hot plate and mini fridge in another. No TV, no computer. Just a small table with a single chair, and a stack of what looked like bills held down by a chipped mug.
Everything was unnaturally tidy, almost obsessively so. The bed was made with military precision, the few dishes in thedrying rack perfectly aligned. It didn't match the Lottie I'd observed—she seemed more casual than meticulous.
I moved carefully through the space, looking for...what, exactly? I wasn't sure. Evidence of whatever she was hiding, I supposed. The bathroom was equally sparse—a shower with a plastic curtain, a sink with a crack running through the basin, and a medicine cabinet with a loose hinge.
I opened the cabinet, expecting to find the usual toiletries. Instead, my blood ran cold.
Syringes. At least a dozen used ones, carefully capped and placed in a plastic bag. No clean or sterile ones, no medicine that would explain them being here.
"Shit," I muttered, my mind immediately jumping to the worst conclusion.
The tremors, the urgency to get home, her refusal to let me see her apartment—it all made a terrible kind of sense. She was an addict. Living in this neighborhood, working at Sunny's, it wasn't exactly a stretch. I'd seen the signs before in others, in people we'd tried to help. The secretiveness, the physical symptoms, the desperate need to maintain control of her environment.
I closed the cabinet, feeling sick. This explained why she'd been so resistant to my help. Addicts had to protect their supply, their routine. Moving to a new place, changing jobs—that would disrupt the delicate teetering balance of her life.
I scanned the tiny apartment again, looking for other signs. No visible drugs, but addicts were good at hiding their stashes.
I checked my watch. Her shift would end in a few hours. I needed to be here when she got back. This couldn't wait. Whatever she was using, she was clearly in a dangerous situation—the neighborhood, the job, the apartment with less than zero security to say nothing of the mess with her uncle. And now this.
I settled into the single chair at the small table, prepared to wait. Part of me felt guilty for invading her privacy, but concern overrode that. If she was using, she needed help whether she wanted it or not. I could get her into a good rehab program; it wasn't like I couldn't afford it.
The hours passed slowly as I sat in her silent apartment. I noticed other details—the teddy bear now carefully propped on her pillow, a framed photo of a young couple I assumed were her parents, a small notebook with careful calculations of what appeared to be a budget. Every penny accounted for, with barely anything left over, which made little sense when drugs had to be paid for.
Just before seven, I heard footsteps in the hallway. A key in the lock. I stood, positioning myself where she would see me immediately—no point in scaring her more than necessary.
The door swung open, and Lottie froze on the threshold, her eyes widening in shock and fear.
"Walker?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "What—how did you—"
