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Someone was in my apartment.

Someone who knew exactly what to look for.

Someone who was able to get it all without me even seeing them.

None of this is possible.

I stumble to the phone, dialing with trembling fingers. It rings three times before a sleep-rough voice answers.

“Callahan.”

I open my mouth but no sound comes out. At least I know he wasn’t the one in my apartment.

“Hello?” Irritation edges into his tone. “Who is this?”

“It’s Lena.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears. “I…I need help.”

A pause, then the rustle of movement. “Are you hurt?”

“No. Not exactly.” How do I explain what just happened? “I just…can I see you? Now? I don’t want to be alone.” I nearly whisper the last part.

Another pause. I can almost hear him weighing professional boundaries against the urgency in my voice.

“Where are you?”

“My apartment.”

“Stay there. I’ll come to you.” The line clicks dead.

I sink onto the edge of the sofa, my nails digging into my palms. In four years as a vampire, I’ve encountered my share of the supernatural, but nothing like this. The blood that wasn’t there. The figure that moved like smoke. The way he knew where I hid it.

And now Elizabeth’s diary is gone—the only tangible connection I had not only to her, but to whatever got her killed.

Who—or what—was in my apartment?

And why didn’t they hurt me?

I know I probably should be calling up my friend Abe, he might be able to help me figure this out better than a human can. He casts a wide net over this city and has always watched over me here.

But right now it’s Callahan that I want.

By the time his car pulls up outside twenty minutes later, I’ve dressed and packed a small overnight bag. I don’t know where I’m going, but I can’t stay here. Not tonight, anyway.

I meet Callahan at the street door, stepping out before he can come in. He looks rumpled, like he threw on yesterday’s clothes,his dark hair mussed from sleep. Yet his eyes are sharp, alert, taking in my pale face and the bag clutched in my hand.

“What happened?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Not here. Can we go somewhere else? Please?”

He studies me for a moment, then nods, opening the passenger door of his car. “My office. It’s secure.”

The drive passes in silence. I’m aware of him glancing at me periodically, questions evident in his expression, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he navigates the empty pre-dawn streets with practiced ease, eventually pulling up to a nondescript building in a quiet business district.

Callahan’s office is on the second floor—a modest space with a tidily kept reception area that is shared with another office. He leads me through his door, flipping on a lamp that casts warm light over a worn leather couch, an armchair, a sturdy desk, and walls lined with filing cabinets.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the couch. “I’ll make coffee.”

I perch on the edge of the cushion, still feeling the chill from my encounter. The office smells of tobacco, old paper, and something distinctly male—Callahan’s scent, I realize. Under different circumstances, I might find it comforting.