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Completely cleared out.
I swallow, the edges of the hard metal digging into my palm as my hand clenches unconsciously. “Natalie?”
There’s no answer. She’s not fucking here.
She’s gone, just like all of her stuff is. And I know, without even having to guess, without having to think twice about it, who’s responsible for this.
Marcus fucking Constantine.
Chapter 7
My gaze sweeps over the empty apartment again, my eyes darting back and forth.
A few little pieces of trash remain, detritus of a life that’s no longer here.
What in the actual fuck?
I hate Natalie, and I’ve wished she would move on more than one occasion. But I never wished for this. I never asked for this.
It’s Marcus. I’m sure it is.
Maybe he or one of the other guys saw our exchange on the front stoop last night—Jesus Chri
st, was he hiding in the fucking bushes?—and decided to take matters into their own hands.
Fuck. Did they kill her?
I don’t know shit about these men, except for the fact that they have no problem stalking someone, that they beat the shit out of the guy who tried to mug me, and that they lead the kind of lives that got one of them shot at. It’s not too big of a stretch to imagine they’re capable of serious violence.
But murder?
Fuck. I don’t know.
Panic churns in my stomach as I stare wide-eyed around the room. It makes my skin feel cold and clammy, and my mind races through dozens of different scenarios. But no matter how many possibilities it filters through, it always settles back on one undeniable fact.
Marcus is fucking with my life.
He and his two shadows are growing more and more bold. They’re no longer going to be satisfied with just following me around, showing up at the library or the bar. They’re insinuating themselves into my life, messing with shit that isn’t theirs to touch.
I don’t really care about Natalie, but that was my battle to fight. My shit to deal with.
Anger rises up inside me, burning away the confusion and panic.
I’m done.
So fucking done with this.
I put up with it for too goddamn long because I didn’t know what else to do, but that was obviously a mistake. I should’ve confronted it head on as soon as I realized they were following me.
Still gripping the 3B decal tightly in my fist, I turn and stride from the room, nearly stumbling on the stairs in my hurry to get back to my own apartment.
The napkin with Marcus’s name and number is still in the back pocket of the jeans I wore to work last night. I don’t even know why the fuck I took it with me, why I didn’t just crumple it up and throw it in the trash. Or soak it in whiskey and light the damn thing on fire.
But I didn’t. I kept it.
And now I think I’d like to have a talk with this motherfucker.
My hand shakes as I punch the numbers into my phone, but before I press the green CALL button, my finger hesitates.
