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Her insomnia had grown intolerable the last two months, leaving her exhausted and unable to focus. All because she spent her nights with her eyes and ears wide open listening for an intruder. And worrying that the apartment manager had been inside her place, touching her things.
She poured herself a glass of Merlot then took a sip of the fruity wine, proud of herself for finally speaking up. Hopefully Deputy Eastwood would find out if she was right about Coolidge watching her.
Sure, he’d claimed he’d only been inside to fix the leaky faucet, but her underwear drawer had been rifled through. She’d thrown it all away and bought new ones because the garments smelled like his filthy hands.
The fact that the deputy who’d talked to her was a woman meant she understood. The few guys she’d told said it was her imagination. Said what harm was it if he didn’t hurt her?
Lame, stupid, sexist jackasses.
Itdidhurt. She felt violated even if he hadn’t actually physically touched her.
Because she knew he wanted to. He skulked in the shadows like some crazed peeping Tom.
Tomorrow, the cop was coming back to search her apartment for cameras. If they found some, they’d have proof to put him away.
Shivering, she flipped on the lights in every room and began to search herself. First, she surveyed the kitchen, looking at the tops of the cabinets, the corners near the ceiling, moving the cannisters on her counter around to see if one was hidden on the wall.
Next, the living room—again, the corners near the ceiling, then the bookcase and the potted plant, pulling the leaves apart to check. Nothing.
She moved books around on the bookshelf, checked below the shelves, even straightened the painting on the wall. Nothing.
Maybe she was going crazy.
No… She trusted her gut. Her mother had instilled that in her. And her mother was always right. No arguing with Priscilla Turner.
Sipping her wine, she returned to the bedroom.
She ran her fingers along the wall, shined a flashlight at the ceiling corners, laid the framed photographs of her friends face down on the dresser, looking for the tiniest hole or crevice where a camera could have been installed. She’d checked her Alexa and considered getting rid of it but decided if she was in trouble, she could tell Alexa to call 9-1-1 for her.
Odd that she trusted a mechanical device over people. Especially her landlord.
Pulse hammering, she searched the teddy bear she’d kept from childhood for a device, but found nothing. The bathroom came next. The shower, the ceiling, even behind the curtain rods. But she didn’t find anything.
Relieved yet frustrated because she was certain they were there, she carried her Merlot to her room, set it on the nightstand and crawled into bed with the light still burning.
Blackout curtains were drawn. Another lock secured on the bedroom door. More locks on the windows.
No one was getting in here tonight.
Her eyelids felt like they were pried open with toothpicks. The light stabbed at her eyes. Her head ached. Her body begged for sleep. She rolled and tossed and stared at the ceiling.
One, two, three… There were four dark spots on the ceiling. Where had those come from?
She blinked. Was she seeing things?
A cobweb fluttered in the wake of the air blowing through the air conditioner vent. The unit rattled. A noise, like scraping or something being dragged across the floor, sounded from above.
The tenant on the third floor? What the hell were they doing?
A noise echoed from the unit next to her. Panic clawed at her. Wasn’t that unit vacant?
Eyes wide open now, she strained to hear the sound again.
Threw a look at the door. Still locked. Curtains still drawn. Bathroom door still ajar.
Wait. No. The light went out.
Then there was a louder noise, rattling, from the bathroom.
