Page 32 of Heat Lightning

“We’ll have to start over.” Enzo sounded very serious, his words falling quieter as Mr. Marino turned to go back down the steps. “The voices won't be right.”

“Yes, baby. We’ll start over.”

“Sorry to worry you. Thanks for checking on me!” I called after them.

Mr. Marino turned and smiled. While it was rare, he probably opened a lot of doors with that smile. “Of course, Max. If you ever need anything, just call. Have a good night.”

I waved, feeling grimy, and shut the door with a soft click.

The apartment was suspiciously quiet. It probably would’ve been less disconcerting to hear an all-out brawl over who got the spot under the bed, Jeffrey or the Masked Man.

My money was on Jeffrey.

But when I opened my bedroom door, there was no Masked Man. Jeffrey sat alone, perched at the end of my bed, the tip of his tail flicking back and forth.

All the air whooshed out of me like a deflated balloon. Was I actually disappointed that the vigilante stalker had left like I’d asked him to? Several times?

I sat next to Jeffrey. “Did you eat him?” I asked, rubbing his favorite spot between his ears.

He pushed his head into my hand and purred. If the window hadn’t been open, curtains dancing in the nighttime breeze, I might’ve taken that as confirmation he had indeed snaffled up the intruder.

I dug through the nightstand drawer till I found my old pair of glasses—thankfully, the prescription hadn’t changed too much—and powered my phone back on.

Multiple missed calls and texts from Mr. Marino and Gwen—he must’ve called her when he couldn’t get a hold of me—flooded the screen first. Yikes.

That was tomorrow’s problem.

But then I got a text from an unlisted number.

UNKNOWN

Think about it, please.

I bit my cheek again, refusing to acknowledge the burning feeling that rushed through me.

I still have your knife.

The three little dots appeared right away.

Keep it safe for me?

I blushed. My phone chimed with another message.

I’ll be there to patch your wall tomorrow. The glasses may take a few more days.

Sorry again.

You should be. Those were my favorite pair.

…

You’ll get your favorite pair back, sweetheart.

Overwhelmed, I tossed the phone across the soft duvet and covered my face with my hands. I’d file the heat in my cheeks away in my Masked Man folder labeled Don’t examine too closely, ever.

By now, it was a thick folder.

I fell backwards on my bed with a huff. What the actual fuck was I doing flirting with a man who broke into my apartment less than an hour ago? And why did it make me feel more alive than I had in years?