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“Her shit,” he answers without turning around.
I frown at the vagueness and open the zip of the bag a little to look inside, clothes and toiletries were on top. “You went to her place?”
“Yeah.” He scrubs his hand over his face and finally turns round. I know I look like shit, Hayden worse, but Brent? Brent looks like death. He’s pale and dishevelled, his hair a mess from where he’s clearly been pulling at it and running his finger through it in frustration. “The car was a bust, I found it on CCTV but it had been reported stolen a week ago. Following it through cameras, I finally found it in an abandoned car park already burned out. There was nothing there for me to find out who was driving, so I went to her place.”
“And?” I urge.
“And it wasn’t broken into.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean whoever attacked her didn’t break in. There was no broken lock, no tampering with the door or windows. She told Hayden she was inside her apartment and we heard the lock turn. And she was in her fucking underwear so I’m guessing she hadn’t left again. They must have used a fucking key.”
I contemplate what he said. This wasn’t an off the cusp decision to send me a message. This was planned. Someone wanted to let me know that Elle was fair game, that they know she is mine, and that they can get to her.
“She can’t go back there,” Brent sighs.
“Agreed.”
“So, I packed her a bag and brought her stuff over here until we figure something out.”
“What about the roommate?”
“He wasn’t there, but he should probably go somewhere else. Her phone is in the bag.”
I find the phone and try the pin she used three years ago, it unlocks and I searched through the contacts. No Gray. That can’t be right. I search through again, getting frustrated until Brent comes up behind to look over my shoulder.
“Go from the beginning,” he says.
I start from the A’s again scrolling through slowly.
“There,” he points to a contact named ‘Bitch.’ “That’s what her roommate called her at the club. Likely that’s him.”
“You were there for all of thirty-seconds, how do you pick up on all this stuff?”
He gives me a sly smile. “It’s my job, little cousin.”
I call the number and wait as it rings six or seven times before a groggy voice answers. “Bitch, you better be lying in a ditch somewhere because I know you did not call me before nine a.m. for a fucking chinwag.”
“Gray? It’s Lance Preston. Elle’s friend.”
A moment of silence. “You THE Lance Preston she’s been crying over for a week? Why do you have Elle’s phone? Where is she?” His voice has gone from croaky to assertive in a matter of seconds, and I honestly respect the guy for it.
“Elle is okay. She’s with me and our friends. But there was an incident at your apartment last night. Someone broke in and Elle was attacked.
“What the fuck!? Is she okay?”
“She is shaken and a bit bruised, but she is okay with us. Do you have somewhere else you can stay for a few days? I’m going to arrange for your locks to be changed and for this to be investigated.”
“We should call the police,” he says in a panic.
“I can assure you, Gray, it’s being handled,” I say soothingly. “Do you have somewhere else to stay?”
“Yes. Can I speak to Elle?”
“She’s just getting up at the moment, but I will ask her to give you a call when she’s up for it. When you do speak to her, you can tell her when you would like to go back to your place to pick up some things and I will ensure someone is there to supervise.”
“I need supervising?” he snarks.
