It’s just like ours. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, living room, kitchen. Nothing fancy, but decent enough.
Except my home is decorated. Mom’s obsessed with junk shops and thrift stores—at least, she was before she got sick—and our place is filled with all her little treasures.
Hot Neighbor’s place is devoid of all personality. Like, serial-killer empty. And what’s around is utterly destroyed.
The couch looks like someone went at it with a knife. Plates are smashed on the kitchen floor. There’s debriseverywhere. A dying plant wrecked in the corner. Movies ripped from their plastic boxes. The TV is shattered and lying at an angle.
But nothing on the walls. No photographs, no humanity. Some books, mostly thrillers, a few grocery store romances, stuff like that, but nothing to suggest a living, breathing person spends their time here.
It feels like this place was staged by a realtor or something.
The refrigerator is empty. Totally barren. The only food is a box of cereal smashed in the sink.
As I move toward the back hallway, something catches my eye. It’s black and metal. I reach inside an upturned drawer, biting my tongue, and pull it out.
It’s a gun.
I stare at the weapon. I keep thinking it’s not real, but the thing’s heavy. Like it’s made from actual metal.
I put it back, hand shaking.
Yep, something very bad happened in this apartment.
“Okay, Lena, now you really,reallyshould go.”
The hallway to the bedrooms is a minefield of strewn clothes, tossed books, a mattress slit in half, and money.
Lots and lots of money.
It almost doesn’t make sense, all those loose bills. I stare at the cash, trying to count it all. Hundreds and twenties are strewn all over, some of them torn to pieces like confetti.
My mouth waters at the thought of scooping them up and my brain goes haywire.
Would Hot Neighbor notice if a few went missing?
Assuming he’s even still alive.
What the hell happened here, anyway?
If this was a robbery, they must’ve been after something extremely specific.
I kneel down, heart racing. I feel sick and terrified and so deeply curious I can’t stop myself. Who would do something like this? And who would leave the door hanging open when they were done?
I run my fingers through the cash and feel something underneath. It’s soft and pliable, and when I pull it out, a little laugh catches in the back of my throat.
Boxer briefs. Black cotton boxer briefs. Fruit of the Loom and big. I stare at the underwear and hold them up, nerves and terror making me giddy and stupid.
I picture Hot Neighbor wearing nothing but these and get a little thrill.
I’m running on pure adrenaline right now and not thinking straight, because I’m wondering what they smell like, but I amnota total creep. I’m not like a weird boxer sniffer or something. Normally, at least. I mean, there’s nothing sexy about these things. Only the man who wears them is obscenely attractive.
Then there’s a sound behind me and I whirl around.
A man stands near the entry hall. He’s staring at me with narrowed eyes. Tension is written all over his body.
He’s got a gun pointed at my face.
It’s him. It’s Hot Neighbor. He’s wearing jeans, a dark shirt, and his thick black hair’s pushed back in a careless curly wave.
