I bang again and again, and I start to plead with him. “Please, Brock. I’m sorry!” I cry. “Please, open the door.”
The door stays shut, and eventually, I slip down it to sit on his front step in the rain.
My chest is throbbing, my head, too.
I’ve hit an all-time low.
After an hour of sitting in the cold rain and dark night, I eventually pick myself up and drag myself back to my car. For a long time I stare through the fogged up windshield, doing nothing but looking at his house.
I start the car and pull out into the street completely numb.
My life is a complete disaster.
I sit and stare at the computer screen in front of me. My mind is a million miles away. I get a vision of myself begging Brock while standing in the rain outside his house last night, and shame fills me.
Who am I?
I completely lost my shit last night, along with any dignity I ever had. I think back to all the things that have happened between us, including the gym where we met. Then him seeing me here when he was asking about that police car.
Hang on a minute. I frown. Shit, I had completely forgotten about that. I wrote that number plate he was asking about down somewhere that day. Where did I write it?
What did I have with me that day? The case notes, my diary. My diary.
I take my diary out from my drawer and begin to go through it, looking for a number plate number.
I look on every page, but I can’t see it. Shit, where did I write that down? I know I did somewhere.
I go over the meeting I was having that day, and I type the job into the computer to find out the date of that meeting. Got it.
I flick through the diary at double speed and open it on that date.
With my finger, I trace through all the notes. At the very bottom of the page I see it.
NGH 167
Okay, it was the night before, so that makes it…
I check the dates, go downstairs and make my way out to the backroom. The car rosters go up for two months at a time, so it may be still up on the wall.
I go through the dates. Here it is. I trace my finger across
NGH 167 Peter Mulgrave.
What the fuck?
Peter?
I put the key into my apartment door at exactly 6:00 p.m. It’s been a long day at work and I just don’t know what to make of all this Peter business. Maybe it’s just a bad coincidence. I didn’t say anything to Rourke. I can’t until I know for certain what the hell is going on.
Peter is not a crook, I know that. A sleaze? Maybe. But not a hardened criminal… is he?
I open the door and freeze.
The energy is different and my spine tingles. I look around to see if someone is here.
“Hello?” I call into the silence. I look around the apartment, but everything seems the same. There’s no trace of anything missing. But something is definitely off. “Hello…” I call again, and I hear a noise come from the bedroom.
A sense of fear grips me. I calmly walk back out and close the door, and then I run down the hall and jump into the elevator. I get out on the ground floor and I run across to Meredith’s apartment, banging on the door furiously.
“Who is it?” she calls.
“Meredith, it’s me!” I cry. “Let me in.”
The door opens in a rush and Ben is standing before me. Huh? What’s he doing here? I step back in surprise. My eyes look past him into Meredith’s apartment, and I see that it’s completely trashed. Meredith is sitting on the couch with Jesten.
“What’s going on?” I whisper, officially terrified.
“Come in,” Ben says. I walk past him and step into the apartment. I stop still in my tracks.
Brock is standing by the window. He glares at me for just a second before he snaps his eyes away angrily.
Fuck.
My heart begins to beat hard and fast at the sight of him.
“W-what happened here?” I stammer.
“Meredith has been robbed. It seems they were looking for something.”
“I think they’re in my apartment right now. That’s… that’s why I ran down here,” I tell them, out of breath and nervous.
“What?” Brock frowns.
“I heard a noise come from the bedroom as soon as I walked in,” I whisper.
Brock and Ben take off out the door and run up the hall. “Be careful!” I call after them.
I look around Meredith’s apartment. The entire place is destroyed. Everything is upturned and ripped apart. I drop to the couch beside her.
She’s rattled and physically shaking. I put my arm around her. “It’s okay, baby,” I whisper as I pull her close. “It’s okay.”
But it’s not okay, I can tell by the look on Jesten’s face. This is as far from okay as it gets.