But as I step farther inside, the hush pressing in around me, my steps falter.
The apartment isn’t clean. It’s empty.
The last time I was here, there were fairy lights strung over the sliding doors in the living room. The blue sofa—with its wilting cushions and a red-wine stain on one arm—had a woven throw blanket draped over it. Gemma had a bookshelf chockablock with books, and a small desk in her bedroom so organized it could have passed for a Pinterest page.
Now, the TV is gone, but the wall mount is still there. Tilted slightly, like the TV was removed hastily. The sofa and coffee table are there, too, but they’re bare. The bookshelf is hollowed out. What’s left feels staged, like someone cleaned out everything personal and left only the bones.
I cross the room in slow steps, half expecting to find a note, or a photo—anything to prove Gemma inhabited this place. But all I see is a faint ring on the coffee table, like someone lifted a mug too late to stop the stain. The ring is cold to the touch. No moisture or warmth.
But this washerplace.
I walk through the bedroom, where a bare mattress and frame are left. No sheets. The dresser is empty. So is the closet. Gemma’s bathroom drawers? Barren. I spin back toward thekitchen, driven by panic now. I yank hard on the cabinet door handles and drawer pulls, already knowing what I’m going to find. The refrigerator, the pantry. Even the space beneath the sink. Everything is empty.
Like Gemma was never here.
I put my hand on my head, feeling dizzy and wondering if I’m losing it. A few days ago, everything was easy come, easy go. Dinners, workout classes, shopping, trips—Beau and I lived life as it came. And now? My friend is dead. Heart heavy, I steady myself against the doorjamb for a moment.
And then the front door clicks.
Shit.
I freeze.
A second later, it opens—and Detective Ardell steps inside as my heart stutters. I can see he’s startled, too, because he reaches for the weapon on his belt.
“Sorry, sorry,” I blurt, lifting my hands reflexively.
His eyes land on me, and for an uncomfortable second, neither of us speaks.
“Este, what the hell are you doing here?” He seems both irritated and staggered.
I blink, looking around for a second like the answer might spring forward from one of Gemma’s empty cabinets. But then I say the only honest thing that comes to mind. “I don’t understand what happened. I wanted to see—” I say, fighting back fresh tears. “I thought that maybe—”
Ardell exhales through his nose. “You shouldn’t be here, Este.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I wipe my face. “It wasn’t taped off,” I add, softer now. “So I thought maybe—maybe it was okay to come inside? I needed to see it. I can’t believe she’s…” Tears threaten to spill again.
Ardell doesn’t move. He doesn’t say it’s okay. He doesn’t say it’s not. He just watches me for a long moment, and I can’t tell if he’s going to escort me out, call the front office, or hug me. Then, his gaze flicks from me to the empty apartment.
“It’s not usually like this,” I say. “The last time I was here it feltlivedin. But now it’s…”
Ardell nods, frowning. “Where is everything? Was she moving?” He surveys the space, suspicion creasing his forehead.
“She was supposed to be interviewing for a job. I helped her prep for it. She was putting down roots.”
He’s listening, but his eyes drift past me. He’s more focused on cataloging what used to be the living room.
“Beau said she was found in the alley behind Lemon & Fig all alone? And Tippy said it was a hit-and-run?”
“Maybe.” He shakes his head.
My stomach flips. “What does that mean?”
“We’re still looking into a few things.” He starts toward the bedroom and then turns back to me. “You should head out. I’ve got a team on the way.”
Then it clicks. He’s investigating something. This isn’t some kind of routine check.
Gemma’s death might not have been an accident.
