A cold ribbon slid down her spine.
Sara pushed the door open with two fingers and kept her body behind it, the way she had been trained.
The apartment looked the same at first glance.
But the air felt wrong.
She stepped inside and let the door ease shut behind her without the latch clicking.
Her hand rested on her weapon.
Her eyes went straight to the hallway.
The bedroom door was open.
Sara didn’t leave it open.
No footsteps.
No movement.
But the bathroom?—
Her shower curtain was closed.
Sara always left it open.
Always.
Because she’d watched too many crime-scene photos and sworn she’d never be the idiot who let a killer hide behind a plastic sheet.
Her pulse kicked hard.
She crossed the apartment slow, quiet.
At the bathroom door, she paused and angled her body out of the line of sight.
Then she reached in and yanked the curtain back in one sharp motion.
Empty tub.
No shadow.
Nothing.
She exhaled once, shaky.
But the fear didn’t leave.
Sara backed out, hand still on her gun, and moved into the bedroom.
That’s when she saw it.
Her bed was staged.
Covers folded back in a clean line like someone had been there and wanted her to know it. Pillows upright. Deliberate.
And dead center on the mattress?—
