Page 32 of A Violet Obsession

I think of my sister’s apartment—also a small building—but the parking lot is well lit, and the building is maintained.

I hate this is where Lily lives.

And I hate that I hate it.

I scowl at my reflection in the brushed steel of the elevator doors.

“I know you didn’t want to get involved with my…”

“Kidnapping?”

Her face pales, causing her freckles to stand out in stark relief. “I’ll be fine.”

There’s a tremor just under her voice, and my stomach tightens. She doesn’t believe she’s safe either.

So why the hell did she insist on coming here?

“The front door has security,” she says. “And I have good locks.”

I grind my teeth to keep from saying something I can’t take back.

The elevator opens, and we step inside. It’s small, and though Lily moves to the far corner, her perfume fills the tight space.

It’s an elevator ride. Get a grip.

The doors open on the fourth floor, and I follow her down the hallway. When she sticks her key in the lock, I put my hand in front of her before she can push the door open and pull my gun from my waistband.

“Stand here.” I nudge her into the corner beside the doorframe. She nods, her eyes glued to the weapon.

The apartment is small, but it’s not what I expected.

Everything is soft and warm looking. The furniture is clearly secondhand, but it looks comfortable and lived-in with floral throw pillows on the sofa and two small chairs. Small houseplants line the windowsill in her kitchen, and mismatched frames cluster on the wall above a chest of painted drawers. The photos are mostly of Lily and Emma—laughing, arms around each other, cheeks pressed together. All taken recently.

I don’t see a single one of her parents.

I move through the main room, which comprises a galley kitchen with a single coffee mug drying on the rack and a sitting area. Everything is clean and organized. The careful maintenance that comes from someone who doesn’t have much and takes care of what they do.

I clear the tiny bedroom, the bed neatly made with a lavender quilt and an E-reader on the nightstand.

“Apartment’s clear.”

Lily shrugs out of her coat and hangs it on the hook on the wall, then crosses to drop her bag on the small distressed-white coffee table. When she turns back, her foot catches on a table leg, and she pitches forward.

My hands come up instinctively, gripping her upper arms to steady her.

Her face is inches from mine. Close enough that I can count every one of those freckles. Her lips part, and the warmth of her breath ghosts across my jaw. Her dress has shifted where I’m holding her. The neckline gapes just enough to give me a view of that violet butterfly and the full curve beneath it.

Blood shoots south so fast I’m lightheaded. Her pulse hammers visibly in her throat and her eyes flick to my mouth. For one brief, tempting second, she sways forward.

She’s deluded enough to think she’s in love with you. She’s vulnerable. She’s had the worst day of her life.

I drop my hands and take a full step back.

“You should be more careful.” My voice is gruff.

“Right.” She tucks a curl behind her ear, not meeting my eyes.

I shove my hands back into my pockets—apparently the only place they can be trusted—and walk to the window. I pull the lavender linen curtain aside and scan the parking lot below. My truck reflects the overhead lights.