Her head popped up, she had chalk in her hand. “Oh, hi. I was wondering if you were going to sleep the day away.”
“I asked you a question.” My blood pressure rose, the pounding in my ears ramping up with each second she was near my things.
Had she gone through them?
Looked at my notes?
There were only a few pages, but I’d managed a janky outline.
Would I have to start over again?
I limped forward, pushing my desk away from the wall.
Phoebe struggled up from her position on the floor. A pile of chalk was scattered around her. Her green eyes were huge as she scrabbled back. “I was just drawing.”
“What?”
She used the wall to drag herself up and backed into it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything. I just thought I’d leave a few little drawings to make you…” She swallowed. “I didn’t think it would be a big deal.”
“I don’t like people in my stuff.” I grabbed my notebook, holding it against my chest.
“I didn’t touch your notebook. It looked like a journal.”
My fingers shook as I gripped the leather. It was as close to a journal as I got. Scribbles and fragments of ideas.
I didn’t trust typing them out anymore.
I didn’t even trust putting them on my board yet.
It wasn’t like they were even good, but each one was hard won after…
I shut my eyes, dragging in a deep breath.
“Dutch?”
Her voice sliced into me. Hesitant and caring. Even when I yelled at her. Fuck, I was a piece of shit. “Just leave.”
“I—”
“Phoebe, please.”
“I was only trying to help. It looks so cold in here.”
I leaned on the desk to take the weight off my throbbing ankle.
“Let me help.”
“Just fucking go!”
She rushed out and I sagged against the desk when I heard her steps in the hallway. With shaking fingers, I opened the journal. The clippings I’d tacked inside were still there. The missing boy with the haunted eyes that I’d seen in a random newspaper from Maine. I set the notebook on the edge of the desk, my legs collapsing under me.
I crashed into the chair and opened my laptop.
The lock screen still looking for the first password. I had another level of privacy that could only be accessed by my face and a code thanks to my Bastian. The perks of research for one of my books, I’d made friends with an information security expert—his term, not mine. He hadn’t blinked when I requested the help.
Bastian understood the need to safeguard information, no questions asked.
When I verified she hadn’t looked, I shut the lid and buried my head in my arms. I took deep, even breaths until my head stopped throbbing.
