The apartment is in disarray.
Books are everywhere, possessions from both rooms tossed on the floor, even food from the kitchen cabinets is smeared in places, scattered in others.
Ransacked. Someone did this on purpose.
“Tobias,” I whisper, reaching for him. My palm lands in the center of his chest and he gently captures my wrist, coming up behind me. As soon as he processes the scene from over the top of my head, he yanks me back out of the apartment, standing between me and the mess. “I assume it doesn’t always look like that?” he asks tightly.
“No. Shayna. Oh my God, my roommate—”
“Is she home this time of day?”
“No. She works downtown, but she could have called in sick or worked virtually today.” Pulse scrabbling, I wheel around him, trying to enter the apartment, but he turns quickly, wrapping his arms around my waist and preventing me from going any further. “I need to make sure she’s not in there. Shayna?”
“I will check, Elise.” He scans the hallway end to end. Searching for a threat? “You will wait right here.” The sudden change in his demeanor, from playful to imposing, renders me momentarily speechless. All I can do is watch with my hands over my mouth as he enters the apartment, stepping over throw pillows and rolls of toilet paper, disappearing into each bedroom and the bathroom, even the closets. He emerges from the final one shaking his head. “There’s no one here.”
I let out the breath I’ve been holding and step over the threshold. My immediate—albeit ridiculous—response is to begin cleaning everything up, but Tobias stops me. He takes my face in his hands and forces me to focus on him.
“Elise. The television is still here. A laptop in the other bedroom. It doesn’t appear to be a robbery.” He pauses, searching my face. “Do you have any idea who would do this?”
“No. I—” Abruptly, I cut myself off, leaving the denial hanging in the air. A chill carries up my spine and washes over the back of my neck. No. No…my apartment hasn’t been destroyed over the Alexander-Crouch story. Right? This kind of personal retaliation doesn’t happen in real life. This isn’t The Sopranos. Everything goes through lawyers and…
The picture.
It was sitting on my dresser when I left the apartment this morning.
My feet carry me into my room slowly. I already know the manila envelope is going to be missing when I step over the threshold, but I’m still knocked back a step. This confirms it—my apartment has been trashed by someone connected to the story. As far as I can tell, it’s the only thing missing.
Tobias comes to a stop beside me at the foot of my bed. The longer I’m silent, the closer his eyebrows creep toward his hairline. “It would appear you have some idea who did this.”
“I…” I’m embarrassed to tell him. To recount my flub yesterday to anyone. At some point, I will have to acknowledge what is happening here out loud. But I need to deal with the immediate problems first. Need to wrap my head around what I’ve caused. “I need to call Shayna and tell her what happened. Then the police—”
I pretend not to notice Tobias scrutinizing me.
But I can’t ignore him when he approaches—and attempts to sweep me up in his arms like a child. I wrestle my way free, batting at his hands. “What are you doing?”
“Comforting you,” he explains, attempting to cradle me again. “It’s just the thing.”
“No, it’s not!”
Finally, he gives up, but he’s extremely put out about it, the absolute nut ball. “Fine. I’m calling the lads.” When I look at him in surprise, he adds, “Balance, right? If you were in danger and no one called me, I would go fucking mental.”
Danger? “I’m not in danger.”
“Try saying it with a little more conviction.” He taps the screen and holds up the phone, the familiar chirp of a call connecting filling the vandalized room. It’s not a regular old call, though, he’s FaceTiming. As if a group text with four people isn’t bad enough. Shoot me right now. “I can tell you’re keeping something from me, Elise,” he says solemnly, right before the FaceTime connects.
Keeping a problem this big from them doesn’t seem right. Not at all. And I find myself murmuring, “I’ll explain when we’re all together, so I only have to do it once.”
Two faces pop up on the screen. Banks is on top. There is a parking lot behind him, as if we’ve caught him walking to his car. Gabe is shirtless and holding a bottle of beer, construction grime still shadowing his jaw and forehead.