My brain scrambles backward through the day, trying to replay the moment. Leaving for work, grabbing my bag, locking the door. Did I lock it? Or am I just assuming I did?
I steady my breathing and examine the door. It’s resting on the latch, like I hadn’t clicked it into place before I left.
I bend down and retrieve my keys from the floor, keeping my eyes fixed on the gap in the door as I grasp them between my knuckles. My heart feels like it’s going to tear through my chest as I peer inside my apartment. The faint glow from the streetlights illuminates the room enough for me to see. Nothinglooks out of place. No overturned furniture, no open drawers, nothing is different. The half-eaten bagel from breakfast is still sitting on my counter, crumbs and all, the music magazine I read before work still draped over the arm of my couch.
Everything is exactly how I left it.
I ease into my apartment, every creak of the floorboards making my heart beat harder in my chest. My eyes dart over the space, noting that every item is exactly where it should be. I make my way into the bedroom and the bathroom. Nothing out of place there either.
My heart refuses to slow down. It’s screaming at me that something isn’t right. I’m so sure I locked the door. My breathing becomes ragged. The apartment suddenly feels too small, like the walls are closing in around me. A familiar tingling builds in my fingers. I gulp in a breath, but it’s not enough. My chest rises and falls, but it feels like no air is reaching my lungs.
I clutch my chest as I rush to the bathroom, still heaving in deep breaths. After shutting the door, I rest against it and inhale deeply. I realize I’m scratching my arms. Red welts start to appear in lines where I’ve scratched.
Rushing to the medicine cabinet, I pull out a hair tie, sliding it into position on my wrist. My hands shake so badly that I nearly drop it. I pull it back and snap it against my skin. The familiar sting loosens my muscles as I slide down onto the floor, my back against the tub. It takes three more snaps before I can breathe and five more after that to calm my heart. One more, and my mind clears.
If someone had broken in, there would be more evidence. My jewelry, even though it’s mostly costume, would be gone. The small stash of cash under my mattress would also be gone.
I forgot to lock my door. That’s it. I won’t allow myself to think of the alternative.
Because the alternative is that someone was here. And the thought of someone standing in my apartment—breathing the same air, touching my things—makes nausea roll inside me.
No. I forgot to lock the door.
That’s the only explanation I need.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Kat
Hearing Damage – Thom Yorke
Pour. Swirl. Breathe.Yawn.
Steam curls up from the pitcher in whimsical ribbons, clouding the space between me and the espresso machine. My eyes burn from lack of sleep. Every slow blink feels like I’m trying to lift a truck with the strength of my eyelids alone. The smell of coffee is thick in the air. I’ve consumed two espressos since I arrived this morning, but even that’s not enough to wake me up.
It’s officially snowflake season. We’ve moved on from pumpkins and onto fucking snowflakes. No one prepares you for the absolute hell that is the holiday season in a coffee shop. It’s like everyone suddenly remembers coffee exists once the ground frosts over. And apparently every single person in the city wants their drink to look like a fucking Pinterest post. Snowflakes, candy canes, cinnamon stars. If I have to sprinkle one more edible glitter snowflake on a latte today, I might actually lose my mind.
After I found my apartment door open last night—and even though I told myself it was me who forgot to lock the door—I still slept on the bathroom floor, not moving until the rising sun gave me the courage I needed to leave the cold tiles. Even then, I was still late to work, arriving shortly after the fifthcustomer, which in snowflake season might as well be arriving three hours late. Harper just gave me a suggestive eyebrow wiggle as she continued to serve.
I move the ridiculously glittery drink to the collection counter and immediately get started on the next one, muscle memory taking over. Grind beans. Tamp. Lock the filter. Steam milk. Pour. Repeat. The rhythm of the machine almost drowns out the thoughts clawing at the back of my brain.Almost.
I glance over at Harper, who is leaning with both elbows on the counter. If cartoons were real, this customer would have pulsating hearts for eyes. Harper doesn’t even have to try. She could probably flirt her way out of a murder charge if she wanted to. He gives her a seductive smile as he drops twenty dollars into the tip jar, earning him a wink in return.
A sharp hiss rings out from the espresso machine, making my heart jump straight into my throat. A fragment from last night’s panic flashes through my mind at the intrusion. Milk sprays out the sides of the pitcher and splashes against the counter and my clothes.Fucking great. I’m going to smell like sour milk for the rest of the day.
“Whoa, jumpy,” Harper says, making her way towards me. “Are you okay? You look paler than usual.”
“I’m fine,” I tell her, wiping down the milk frother and then my clothes. “I could just do with a break.”
Harper takes the drink from my hands, adding the last finishing touches to it before placing it on the collection counter. She turns to me, linking her arm with mine, and guides me towards the back porch.
“We’re on break, Kaycee!” she shouts.
Kaycee offers a wave of their dish towel in response.
We let out a collective sigh as we take our usual seats on the back porch stairs, the old wood creaking under our weight.
“So, what’s really going on?” Harper asks.
