Page 2 of A Shot in the Dark (Fated Mates Collection | Triple Threat #1)

I glance at the suitcases and overnight bag.

It’s tempting, but it’s also something I can do for myself.

“No, thank you.” I hand him a fifty-dollar bill without a thought and open my door as he trots away.

He mumbles a gracious “thank you,” but I know I’m hardly the only person tipping the staff like I do.

Some even tip much more—they can afford to.

The moment the door closes behind me, the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Something seems different.

Off .

There’s a faint but distinct odor of cheap cologne—the kind men with no taste essentially bathe in before hitting a bar scene they expect to be smoky. No one I know now wears that sort of thing. My gaze sweeps the room; everything’s as neat as I left it.

Huh.

Maybe maintenance came in for some reason… Maybe I’m unsettled from the breakup, the flight, and the drive. Nothing feels quite right.

It’s me. No, it’s nothing. With that mantra in mind, I drag my bags into my bedroom and begin unpacking.

I separate my clothes between things I need washed and things for the dry cleaner.

That part of me that remembers like it was yesterday growing up in a small town winces at the proportion of must-not-touch-water fabrics, but the big city fashionista in me knows it’s part of the cost of doing business here.

I set my souvenirs in the curio cabinet beside my bookshelves and run my finger along the spines of a few of my favorite books.

I slip the newest cowboy romance by J. Gillmansen onto the shelf.

I even retain the silly five-book series that coaxed me into the belief that reading could be enjoyable after class after class of shit like Shakespeare, The Great Gatsby , and 1984 .

Sure, there were reasons to read all of them, but the way we were forced to read and analyze parts of them again and again?

It quickly sucked out all the curiosity right out of me.

In contrast, there was the 13 to Life series, a small-town story about a girl dealing with more than the normal amount of teenage angst and drama—including werewolves.

There was Rachel Hawkins’ Hex Hall , Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight , Hush, Hush by Becca Fitzpatrick, and House of Night by PC Cast. I was a reluctant reader, but when it came to those books? I swallowed them whole.

I pop my passport in my modest wall safe tucked behind a painting that came with the condo…

all part of the standard work of returning from abroad.

Even in the chill of early spring, it’s thirsty work, so I head to the kitchen for a drink.

I freeze in the doorway, a prickling sensation racing its way up my spine.

The wine glass sits on the counter by the sink, winking at me in the light. Plodding forward like some monster in a black and white film, I stare in disbelief. I only own one wine glass, and only as a grim reminder of a party gone wrong.

I never take it out.

My gaze slides to the cabinet where it normally resides to find the space empty. Impossible.

I never drink from the wine glass. I haven’t drunk from any wine glass since that September.

A shiver running up my spine, reality hits home.

Someone has been in my home. I’m sure of it.

As sure as I am about that, I’m also certain they aren’t here now.

I don’t know how I know—I just do . Not sensing any immediate danger, I dig out my phone, put my back to the nearest wall and dial the police.

“...I’m telling you someone’s been inside my condo. ”

“Is someone still in your home?”

“No…” I don’t know how I know, but I do. ”As wrong as things feel, I know I’m not in immediate jeopardy. Someone has definitely been here.”

I can almost hear the police officer’s eyes roll at my comment. “And how do you know?”

“Because things I left a particular way are out of place.”

“The building that you live in has cleaning staff, correct?”

“Yes…”

“And do they have access to your condo?”

“Technically, yes.”

“Then why do you think it wasn’t some member of the staff who straightened up while you were… where was it again? In Dubai?”

“It’s just a feeling,” I admit. “And it’s not the first time.”

“You mean it’s not the first time you had this feeling?”

“Yes, and no. I mean, I know that somebody was in my condo once before.”

“And how do you know someone has been there this time?”

“I found a glass that had been left out and obviously used by someone.”

“You never leave out glasses yourself?”

“Not this glass.”

A long sigh sounds from the other side of the phone. “Look, if you need me to send someone out there I will, but I’m getting the feeling this may not be a big deal. Do you want me to send an officer out?”

Shit . I don’t want to have the sort of reputation where people think I’ve lost my mind or blow things out of proportion.

I’m the one who always does the right thing—I don’t want to be that girl.

After a moment, I simply agree, “No. You’re probably right; it’s probably nothing,” even though my gut twists angrily at my denial.

I’ve only just ended the call and turned back around when I see it.

The note.