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Yes to what we talked about. Found more trackers in my stuff.
Within seconds, she marks the message with a!!, and another second after that, the phone rings.
“Holy shit,” she says by way of hello, and I fall back onto the bed, filling her in.
“Six, Willow. Two of them in my coats, which means they know everywhere I’ve been since I don’t know how long, including my apartment. I need that...itemwe talked about.”
“Yes, you do.” She’s smart enough not to say the word out loud.
“How fast can you get one? How much?”
“Give me a day or two, and I’m guessing under a thousand.”
I don’t want to think about what a thousand-euro hole will do to my already tight budget, but I also can’t say no. I stare at the trackers on my dresser, and this doesn’t seem like the time to tighten the money belt. I need a weapon to protect myself no matter how much it costs.
“Okay. Thank you. Truly.”
Willow must hear the worry in my voice because hers softens. “Don’t worry about price. Pay me back whenever you can. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got something.”
I thank her again, and we hang up.
I check the time—almost seven, then pull up the number for the detective. He’s not going to like that I’m calling him after hours again, but I’m not going to make the same mistake twice. I need to get those trackers out of my house and into his hands, so he can tell me whose head I should point that gun at.
“Arie Boomsma.”
“Me again. I found some more trackers. Six, to be precise. They were in my things. I have no idea how long they’ve been there.”
“Where are you?”
“At home. They definitely know where I live.”
“I’m on my way. Give me fifteen minutes.” He hangs up before I can respond.
Fifteen minutes to jump out of my skin at every voice outside, at every moan and creak and door slam in the stairwell. The whole time, the detective’s words scream through my head.Two people are dead, and I’d really prefer you not be the third.
I’d really prefer that, too.
I pace the apartment, and maybe it’s the mess, or the building’s slanted walls and low-lying ceilings sitting directly under the roofline, but I want to crawl out of my skin. There’s only one way out of an apartment at the tippy-top of a stairwell, and it’s the same way the killer would use to get in. My room, already cramped and claustrophobic, feels like a death sentence. I can’t stay here another second.
A buzzer rips the air, and I squeal, checking the clock. Thirteen and a half minutes since the detective hung up on me, but there’s no video on the door buzzer system, no way to see if it’s the detective or one of the reporters or worse, an armed killer, and I can’t stay here another second. I grab my bag and the trackers from my dresser, snatch my keys and coat from the hook, and make the long trek down the stairs.
I’m coming to the ground floor when I see him, the detective’s face peering through the frosted window at the top of the door. I spot the cluster of reporters behind him, their words tumbling over each other as they jostle for a prime spot. Detective Boomsma turns and barks something sharp, and they shut up. Telling them to back off, I’m guessing.
I scurry down the last few steps and conceal myself behind the door. But they must know it’s me on the other side, because the questions start up the second I crack the door.
Rayna, Rayna! Did you really spray-paint the walls of your ex-husband’s home?
Take a baseball bat to his car windows?
Make a bonfire of his designer shoes and custom suits on the lawn?
Yeses across the board. His artwork, his watches and expensive clothes, the lead glass windows he imported from some stupid chateau in France, all destroyed. And screw it, I’ll just say it: ruining all his most precious things felt so damn good. It felt better than sex, definitely better than any orgasm Barry had ever given me, which were mediocre and clumsy at best. It felt like payback for the things he took from me.
My pride. My future. My former best friend.
The second the detective is inside, I slam the door in their faces, but not before they can fire off one more question.
How many nights did you spend in jail for assault?