Mine

“How long have you lived here?” I asked.

“For a year.”

“It’s time to upgrade,” I said.

“I’m in a lease.”

“I could help you break it.”

Smiling, she shook her head. “It’s fine. I’ll move when it’s up in a few months.”

“I don’t think it’s safe here.”

She gestured behind her. “But there’s a code to—”

“That code doesn’t secure shit. It’s just a way for the landlord to add a couple hundred to your rent. He needs security here.”

The elevator arrived. The doors opened. We jumped on. She seethed by my side, probably annoyed with me. For some reason, she always hated my raw truth. There was no reason for her to care about what I said.

My opinion shouldn’t have mattered to her. She was everything. Perfect. Smart. Stunning. Courageous. If anything, every word I muttered was just to keep her safe.

But I can get off her back a little. I just want her more protected.

The elevator rose. I stared at the closed doors in front of me. “Sorry.”

She turned and widened her eyes. “What?”

“The building is nice.”

She smiled. “Thanks.”

“You’re still moving.”

She chuckled to herself but said nothing else.

We stepped off. For some reason, darkness filled the hallway.

I held her behind me. “Is it always this dark in here?”

“No. Maybe the lights are off.”

“I’m not a fan of maybes.” I pulled my gun out of its holster. “Turn on your phone’s light. Shine it in front but stay behind me. I’m sure everything is fine.”

She looked at my gun for a few seconds in shock but did exactly what I said.

Silence filled the place.

I pointed my gun in the direction of the light. Nothing stood at the end, but a door.

“You’re the only one on this floor?” I asked.

“Yes. It’s the penthouse.”

I reached my free hand behind me. “Give me your keys.”

Zola shook a little as she pulled them out of her purse. “Here.”

I grabbed them and walked forward. Everything was probably fine. Zola had me on edge as usual, and I was probably a little off my game, but in the end, better safe than sorry.

The door opened with a creak. A strange smell hit me. Something rotten. Urine maybe.

I whispered, “Does your place always smell like this?”

“No.”

I wished Baptiste and Stark had already arrived. They could’ve waited outside with Zola. I really didn’t want to bring her in, but I damn sure wouldn’t leave her in a dark hallway by herself. Who knew where this sick bastard was?

Are you here, motherfucker, or is my mind playing tricks on me?

Dread hit Zola’s voice. “My lights are on.”

“They’re usually off?”

“Yes.”

We walked further inside. Apparently, it wasn’t just the hallway light that someone had turned on, but also the living room. It was there that we found several dozens of cut pink roses spilled all over the floor.

Zola gripped my arm. “Oh my God.”

“Stay close to me.”

6

Semen-splattered Wishes

Hunter

We walked into an attractive sitting-room decorated in Zora’s style of earth colors—pale green couch, comfortable leather chocolate chairs, and a light-yellow rug. There were grey walls and a white ceiling. A small bar section stood in the corner appearing elegant and sleek. It was a bow-fronted French sideboard with plenty bottles of alcohol and different glasses, and a plated ice-bucket. A wide window stood on the right.

Zola’s place might’ve been nice when she left it this morning, but it was a shit pile now. Someone had ripped up the couch cushions and yanked out the stuffing. Paintings hung backwards. He’d taken them off, turned them around, and nailed through the canvas. The art was ruined. Furniture too. Spilled wine covered the carpet wherever torn roses didn’t rest.

“How many bedrooms?” I asked.

“One.”

I gripped my gun hard. “Let me make sure it’s clear.”

She followed. Her hands shook as she held her phone.

In the hallway to her bedroom, floor-to-ceiling windows outlined the length, showing off a breathtaking view of Brooklyn. Yet, on the glass, someone had drawn in black permanent marker, “MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE.”

Zola whispered, “What the fuck? Why me?”

“He’s a sicko. Don’t try to make sense of it.”

The stalker had also left a signature, under the lines of the repeated word.

Brokenhearted.

Is that what you are? Brokenhearted?

I opened the bedroom and entered, leading with my gun and wishing the bastard was still there. I wouldn’t hurt him in front of Zola, but I would damage every cell in his body. Every nerve would feel pain by the time I finished.

Fortunately, the space was empty. I checked her adjoining bathroom, all of the closets, and even the balcony. He’d left.

Unfortunately, he’d also put a message all over the bed. There were more roses, outlining big letters to spell out mine. Wet liquid had been spilled all over the petals and sheets. I studied the mess.

“Mine. Why is it always mine?” Zola hugged herself and gazed at her bed. “Someone should get this guy a thesaurus.”