I try to maintain my glare, but it melts away under the warmth of his gaze. He's the cutest thing in the world, I think, my anger dissolving. I can't be mad. I can't believe he's mine.
Detective Brinkman is tall, older, with graying hair and a mustache. He seems nice enough, but he looks tired. Whatever delayed him from getting here, it was probably more urgent than my trashed apartment.
Iwalk back inside with him andsit on the couch, surrounded by broken things. My favorite vase from my mom... shattered. My TV screen... cracked. Records, snapped in half. Even my yoga mat has been shredded and strewn across the floor. The kitchen is worse, with plates and cups smashed everywhere. Every drawer has been emptied.
"You're sure you locked your apartment door?" the detective asks, his pen scratching against the small notebook in his hand.
"Yes, I did." I pause, the memory of the key turning in the lock flickering in my mind. "I doubted myself for a second, but... I always lock it. It's automatic, muscle memory."
"Anyone else have a key to your home?"
"No, it's just me." The words feel hollow in the wreckage of my sanctuary.
"Anything missing?"
My eyes sweep across the chaos—shattered glass, torn cushions, my laptop screen resembling a fractured mirror. "I haven't gone through everything... I honestly don't know. Nothing stands out."
"So no cash, valuables, or IDs are missing?"
"I don't think so." I shake my head. "I don't own anything expensive. My wallet and phone were with me."
"Do you have anyone in your life who would want to do something like this?"
The question hangs in the air like smoke. My mind races.
Kaitlynn's venomoushistory of possessively tracking Vince,Ted’swounded pride when I ended things,andSamantha... What if she discovered I'd sabotaged her reconciliation with Vincelast night? The timing feels impossibly tight, the thought itself a betrayal.
"You still with me?" Brinkman's voice cuts through the spiral of my thoughts.
I force a brittle laugh. "Yeah. Justthinking. There arequitea few people who might not be too happy with me right now."
"That's a start. Can you give me their names and numbers?"
I sit up straighter. "Wait. You’regoing to reach out to them?"
"Yes. Unless you're saying you don't want to press charges?We can file the break in, but I don’t recommend you stay here tonight."
Unease coils in my stomach at the thought of police knocking on doors, questions asked, pointing fingers.
"Actually," I say, my voice steadier than I expect, "I'd rather figure this out on my own. I don't want to press charges. Not yet."
Detective Brinkman's pen pauses mid-air over his notepad, his weary eyes studying me with practiced skepticism. "You sure about that, son?"
I meet his gaze, nodding as conviction wars with the tremor in my hands. "Yeah. But I'll call if I change my mind."
He slides a business card across the splintered coffee table, the crisp paper feeling impossibly flimsy in the wreckage of my life. As he turns to leave, his knuckles rap against the doorknob—a sound that echoes through the violated space like a final, damning pronouncement.
"One last piece of advice," he says, his hand resting on the doorframe. "Talk to your landlord about those locks. Someone out there has a key to your place... or they're very, very good at picking them. No signs of forced entry. That is, if you're absolutely certain you locked up when you left."
The implication hangs in the air as he steps out, leaving me alone with the shattered remnants of my sanctuary and the chilling realization that someone has walked into my home as easily as I would.
Chapter 33
The First Time I Went a Day Without You
Andrew
IdrivetotoVince’s house after Detective Brinkman leaves.
