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“What does worse mean?” I can barely restrain myself from snapping at him.
“The writing on the window? The woman thought her stalker had written it on the outside of her window, but she was wrong. It’s written on the inside. He was in her apartment.”
My breath leaves in a hiss.
“Sounds like the janitor gave some guy a key,” Ross continues on. “The guy said it was his apartment.”
“So we have a lead.”
“Eh. Sort of. We know our suspect is definitely a male. Beyond that, the description the janitor gave was vague. He didn’t really pay attention. Just thought it was a standard call. He barely remembers the guy.”
I close my eyes. “So this creep broke into her apartment, but we don’t know who he is.”
“That about sums it up. I don’t know, Peter, I’m worried about this one. Remember that woman back in March?”
Yes, I remembered the woman. Her stalker had tracked her for weeks, learning her every move. Then he’d snatched her off the street in broad daylight. We caught the guy, eventually, but the woman wasn’t alive anymore by the time we got there.
I remind myself that Emily’s stalker isn’t that guy. We put that guy behind bars. That doesn’t mean her stalker is any less dangerous, though.
“You think the stalker wants to kill her,” I say as calmly as I can.
“I don’t know,” Ross hedges. “I just have a bad feeling is all.”
Over the years I’ve worked with him, I’ve learned to trust Ross’ bad feelings.
I don’t know what to tell Emily. Nothing, probably. I don’t want her to panic, especially because we have no leads and no evidence that this guy is really trying to hurt her yet.
I hang up the phone and turn around. Emily’s wide eyes meet mine.
Fuck.
“How long have you been standing there?” I ask. I rack my brain to remember what I said.
“He broke into my apartment?” Her face is white as a sheet. “He—he wants to kill me?”
“We don’t know that for sure yet,” I say in as soothing a tone as I can manage. “I didn’t want to tell you.”
A muscle twitches in her cheek. “Oh. You didn’t want to tell me that my life was in danger. How reasonable of you.” She turns on her heel and stomps back into my bedroom.
“Emily.” I follow her.
She’s grabbing up her clothing from my floor and shoving it in her purse. “I’m leaving,” she says.
“Wearing a towel?” I try to step in her path.
She glares at me. I’ve been a cop for almost ten years, but Emily’s glare is the most intimidating thing I’ve seen so far. “Get the fuck out of my way, Peter.”
I do.
Chapter Seven
Emily
When I slam the door behind me, I have two hopes: that Peter doesn’t follow me, and that nobody else on the floor decides to step out of their apartments to find me half naked. But it’s early, so I think I’m good on that one at least. As for Peter, I’m not sure how to deal with him right now.
The damp towel I’m wearing whispers to the floor at my feet as I rip the clothes from my bag and begin to dress. It’s like I’m piecing my dignity back together with every item, hands shaking.
What was I thinking, coming here? Trusting him after I hadn’t seen him in so long? I should’ve known better. And yet, a creeping feeling tugs at my heart as I finally slip into my shoes. I did know better. Because I know Peter. And he sure as hell didn’t feel like a stranger last night. In fact, the connection we had was instant. I know he felt it, too. It was like coming home.
