The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

I dictate the address anyway. “Have Louise, the new intern they gave me last week, ask the small businesses for security footage. Tell Louise I said she works for you now. I need you to have resources. And the Brew Coffee House is a top priority. Get me that footage and anything pointed toward it or my apartment first.”

“Got it. Brew Coffee House and your building. Are you in danger?”

“I’m fine. I hunt monsters.” I catch the edge in my voice that he doesn’t deserve. “Sorry. I’m fine,” I repeat, bringing my voice down a notch below my nerves. “Thank you for asking. I’m just being short because I’m working on a time-sensitive situation.”

“Right, okay. I’m here. I’m on it.”

“Thanks, Chuck. Chocolate for us both, lots of chocolate. Gotta go.” I disconnect and dial the apartment office.

Tabitha, the long-term manager, answers in her famously nasal voice. “This is Tabitha. May I help you?”

“Tabitha, this is Samantha Jazz. Detective Samantha Jazz. I need you to pull the security footage for every angle of my building inside and out, for last night. Actually, for all of the buildings. I need that right now.”

“Oh, I—I need to find out if that’s allowed.”

“The safety of your tenants is in question. Help me protect them.”

“Oh. My. Yes.” She sounds flustered. “I’m sure I can give it to you. I’ll make a fast call. When do you need it?”

“Now,” I repeat. “I’ll be there within the hour to pick it up.”

“That’s fast. I don’t—”

“Tell me when I get there.” I hang up, and I have no choice but to search my apartment again. I can’t not search my apartment after what I’ve just learned. And I hate that The Poet has that much control over me and my actions right now. That has to end. He wants to play. Let’s play, but it has to be my game, my way. He is not in control.

I am.

Chapter 21

Even after I’ve confirmed that The Poet is not in my apartment, I can feel his evil pressing on the walls around me, systematically tearing them down.

I head to the bathroom, setting my weapon and badge on the sink. The weapon is to protect myself. The badge is to remind me that I’m not supposed to kill him if I can arrest him. I rotate to the shower and change my mind. I turn back and shove the badge into the drawer. If he comes into my house, I really am going to kill him.

Now, I feel better. I get in the shower, hurrying through it, eager to get to work. Soon, I’m standing in front of the mirror, dressed in my standard dress pants, which are black today, paired with a matching blazer, and a pink silk blouse. I chose the pink color for a reason. I reach for my hair to knot it at the back of my head, but on second thought, leave it long around my shoulders. I want to be underestimated because I’m female today. Please. Underestimate me. It will be a mistake.

I hook my badge and service weapon at my hip—a weapon that’s never betrayed me, unlike my father.

Hurrying into the bedroom, eager to do what I need to do and get to the campus, I sit in the chair next to the bed and open my MacBook. With fresh eyes, I do a quick review of the material I’d prepared for Wade last night and then press send, hoping the report he’s promised comes quickly.

I’m just settling my briefcase on my shoulder when there’s a knock on my front door. Thinking it might be Tabitha coming to me before I make it to the office, I exit the bedroom and hurry down the stairs and across the living area.

And while I don’t believe The Poet will knock and wait to be invited in, one can’t be too careful. Spine stiff, shoulders knotted, I step to the door, hand on my weapon. “Who is it?”

“The big bad wolf.”

At the sound of Lang’s voice, the tension eases from my shoulders and I open the door. He’s unshaven, his eyes bloodshot, and he seems to be wearing the same jeans and T-shirt he wore yesterday. Clearly, his booty call did end up happening and lasted all night. “You have something to tell me?” he demands.

“Chuck called you.”

“Hell yeah, Chuck called me.” He crowds his way in through my door and I back away, giving him space, and me, too.

I walk into my kitchen, which is a chef’s kitchen with a beautiful navy blue and gray marbled island. Pots and pans hang from above that island on a pretty silver rack. I have never touched those pans since my mother put them there seven years ago, but I have had them cleaned, by someone who wasn’t me. I walk to the fridge and grab a premade protein shake, tossing it to Lang as he steps to the end of the island.