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Adrenaline courses through my body, yet I don’t move.
To my own humiliation, I don’t do anything.
There’s a man in my home.
Aside from the television, the lamp in the corner is the only light on. And it does little to illuminate the man in front of me.
He’s tall. I’m sitting but I can tell he’s tall. And… he’s wearing a suit.
Why is he wearing a suit?
Does that make this worse?
“Evening.” His voice is deep. But gentle. Soft even. And my brain doesn’t know how to react.
My heart is racing.
My hands are shaking.
But the rest of me doesn’t move.
“You know,” he says, as he takes a few slow steps, crossing in front of the TV. “You really shouldn’t leave your door open like that.”
My lips part, but my words get jumbled on my tongue and I have to swallow before trying again.
“I’m on the second floor,” I whisper, still trying to understand what’s happening.
He tilts his head, and it feels like he’s humoring my response, but I can’t focus on that. Because the angle allows the light to fall across his features. And…
Dark eyes. Dark brows. Nearly black hair tousled yet styled back, and sharp cheekbones outlined with a trimmed beard in the same shade.
I swallow again.
He looks like he came from a photoshoot. Or a boardroom. Or a photoshoot of a boardroom. And an inner voice is shouting at me that that should make this even scarier.
Should.
I also notice that his clothes aren’t wet, which means the rain hasn’t started. And for some reason, that saddens me. Like that detail alone seals my ruin.
This is why I’ve always been such a victim.
My instincts are broken. My mind always steers away from the important parts. Zeroing in on ridiculous details, and not on a game plan.
Keeping his body facing me, the man glances around my apartment.
I don’t know a lot about men’s suits, but I’m guessing his clothes cost more than all my belongings put together.
My stuff isn’t fancy, and it looks just as cheap as it is. A second hand couch and scuffed coffee table. The small TV on a cheap stand I had to assemble myself with an Allen wrench. My round table with one chair, tucked in the corner. And a thin stretch of island designating the divide between the living room and kitchen. A kitchen that’s more of a kitchenette, complete with laminate counters that are peeling at the edges.
I resist the urge to sigh at the sight of my phone sitting on said kitchen counter. Mocking me with the idea of calling the police, knowing I’ll never get the chance.
Not that they’ve ever helped me in the past.
My single bedroom and bathroom are on the other side of the kitchen, but darkness swallows them.
The man makes a noise in the back of his throat as he takes it all in. I have no idea what he’s thinking. Or why I should be so anxious for his approval. Like there’s anything in this sad setting to approve of. Or any benefit if one’s murderer likes their apartment.
A police siren wails outside.
