The living room curtains are pulled open, but there’s no movement inside. I put my ear against the front door and knock, straining to hear any signs of life and coming up empty-handed.
“Think, Dunn,” I mumble, running a hand through my hair.
Busting down her door is extreme. It’s a quick way to get exiled from ever seeing her again, but if she’s in serious trouble, I’ll hate myself for not being more proactive.
She’s probably sleeping after last night, the rational part of my brain surmises in an argument with itself.
She also could’ve fallen, hit her head, and now she’s bleeding out on her bathroom floor, the panicked part counters, and I whip my phone out to call Mia.
“Morning, Seb,” my sister says when she answers. “You’re up early. I thought you’d be sleeping in after your adventure last night.”
“Does Quincy have a spare key?”
“Why are you asking?”
“I need to get into her house.”
“She does have a spare key, but I’m not going to tell you where it is.” Mia laughs. “You probably want to swap out her salt with sugar, and I respect my best friend’s privacy.”
“I’m not playing a prank on her.” I knock again, frustration rising. “She has a show every morning, doesn’t she?”
“Every day at nine. I admire her dedication.”
“Yeah, well, it’s almost half past the hour, and there’s no sign of her.”
“What?” Her inhale is jagged. “Where is she?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” I loop my fingers around my necklace, giving it a nervous tug. “She hurt herself last night and I—” I swallow, the confession about to sneak out. “I want to make sure she’s okay.”
“Go to the right of her porch. There’s a light gray box that looks like a rock but is not actually a rock. There should be a key inside.”
I jump off the steps and search the area. The time it takes for me to find what she’s talking about feels as long as each second yesterday did. My breathing is ragged. My hands shake as I sift through the real rocks, finally finding the one that doesn’t belong. I snatch it off the ground and yank the key out, close to breaking the door handle when I shove it in the lock.
“I’m in,” I say. “Thanks, Mia.”
I hang up and shut the door behind me. A quick glance around the foyer and living room shows no signs of forced entry, nothing out of place. Shoes are lined up neatly against the wall. An unopened barometer sits on the long table positioned under a mirror, and I can’t help but smile.
Classic Quincy.
“Monroe?” I call out. “Are you here?”
A noise answers me, a loud thud followed by a soft moan. It sounds like distress, and alarms sound in my head. I grab a hardcover book wedged between a lamp and a stack of mail, moving down the hall.
I spot a door that’s slightly ajar. Behind it, there’s the rustle of sheets. A whimper of pain follows. I push the barrier open with my hip, book raised above my head and ready to attack whoever might be inside.
Subtlety has never been my strong suit.
I freeze when I see Quincy on the floor, forehead resting against the mattress and arms hanging limp at her sides.
“Quincy?” I say, and her eyes fly open. She screams, reaching for a shoe and lobbing it at my head. I let out a yelp, ducking before the sneaker can hit my forehead, but another one comes flying my way. “Hey. Easy, killer. It’s just me.”
“Sebastian?” She gapes at me. “What are you doing here?”
“Checking on you. I tried knocking. When you didn’t answer, I, uh, used the spare key Mia told me about to get inside.”
“This is breaking and entering.”
“Technically it’s lawfully opening and entering, but kicking your door in would’ve been way more fun.” A smile pulls at my mouth. “What are you doing on the floor?”
