“I’m already puttin’ my shoes on.”
That finally earns a real laugh out of her, small and tired. “There’s my girl.”
Then her voice gets serious again. “There’s one more thing,” she starts, clearing her throat. “They left your shelter hoodie on the front seat.”
My eyes widen. “They left what?”
“Your hoodie. The blue one with the paw print on the back that you keep at the shelter.” She pauses, then releases a slow breath. “It was folded up on the front seat.”
Fear trickles slowly down my spine. Somehow, my hoodie ended up folded neatly on the seat. How did they get it from the shelter?
Suddenly, my apartment doesn’t feel quite as safe anymore.
Before I can answer her, another call flashes across my screen.
Jules.
My stomach drops instantly. Jules never calls this early unless there’s a problem.
“Mama, I have to call you back.”
“Maggie—”
“I’ll come by the diner later, I promise. And I’ll call Willie at the auto shop to get the window replaced. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
I switch over before she can argue.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Maggie.” Jules sounds breathless. “Someone broke into the shelter.”
Every trace of warmth drains out of me. Clearly, that’s how they got my sweatshirt.
“Tell me everything.”
“The back door was forced open. I got here twenty minutes ago and the place is wrecked.” His voice shakes. “Files got pulled everywhere. Cabinets dumped out. One of the computers is gone.”
I feel sick to my stomach. “What about the animals?”
“They’re okay. Shaken up, but okay.” He exhales hard. “The police are here now.”
I’m already in the bedroom, grabbing jeans from the floor. I contemplate telling him about Mama’s car and my sweatshirt but decide he’s dealing with enough right now.
“I’m comin’ now.”
“Thank the Lord,” Jules says quickly, relief moving through his voice. “Just drive careful, alright?”
“I will.” I end the call and release a deep breath, gripping my phone while unease presses harder beneath my ribs. Then I force myself to move.
I yank on an oversized T-shirt, throw my hair into a messy knot, grab my keys off the kitchen counter, and head for the door.
The drive across Savannah feels strangely unreal. Morning traffic eases through downtown while tourists wander the sidewalks, carrying iced coffees and shopping bags, as if this is just another ordinary Monday. The flower boxes outside the old brick storefronts overflow with pink and white blooms, and somewhere near Broughton Street, a musician plays guitar music that floats through my open window at a stoplight.
Meanwhile, my pulse refuses to slow. I grip the steering wheel tighter while replaying Mama’s voice in my head.
They left your shelter hoodie on the front seat.
The more I think about it, the worse it feels. It wasn’t random. It was intentional. Like someone wanted us to know they’d been there. I shake the thought away, but by the time I turn onto the road leading toward Second Chance Savannah, unease has lodged itself deeply beneath my skin.
