I scramble to my feet, my legs shaking, and rush to the front door.
No. I have to grab something to wear before I call them.
“You motherfucking asshole,” I seethe at my empty apartment. “When I find out, I’ll fuckingkillyou.”
Cillian answers.
“Someone’s been in my apartment.”
“Right now?” he asks, his voice tight and angry. “Any signs of entry?”
“No.” My voice shakes. “No signs of entry, but someone painted on the wall.”
“I’ll be right there.”
It takes him fifteen minutes to get here. I’m freezing, trembling in my coat, when he finally pulls up. I walk down the stairs.
“I wanted to tell you guys—little things have been out of place.” I fill him in on all the details.
“You look like shite,” he snarls. “Like you haven’t slept. You need sleep, lass.”
How do I tell him I haven’t been sleeping because when I fall asleep, I hear someonebreathing?
I can’t. He’ll think I’m crazy, and I need their gig.
He takes the stairs two at a time, and I trot in his wake. It doesn’t bring me the assurance I hoped it would—this large, muscled man coming to help me.
He’s here because he has to be.
Not because he wants to be.
He opens the door and pushes it open.
“Where is it?” he asks.
I point a trembling finger toward my room.
“Where?”
Where? What is he talking about? Isn’t it obvious?
I follow him in, pointing at the wall that’s now?—
Blank.
Clean.
Not a trace on the wall.
What the actual fuck?
“It was right there,” I say, and I feel like one of those crazy heroines in a movie where someone’s playing a prank on her.
He turns and cocks his head to the side.
“How do you feel? All right?” He watches me carefully. “My boss wanted to bring you in today. Had another job for you. Maybe you need a little time off.”
I can tell he’s trying to be nice, but questioning my ability to do my job is not the way.
