Page 19 of Girl, Unmasked (Ella Dark #28)

Martina Payne’s day had gone down the sewer faster than dollar-store toilet paper. Eight hours of parent-teacher conferences had left her with a throat like sandpaper and the burning desire to punch the next helicopter mom who insisted little Timmy was ‘just misunderstood.’

Now, trudging up four flights of stairs because the elevator was perpetually out of order – or more likely, the owners were too damn cheap to fix it – Martina fantasized about her couch, pizza, and losing herself in a trashy docuseries about a woman who’d been missing or murdered or kidnapped or something.

Anything that made her feel like she wasn’t the unluckiest woman on earth.

She paused at her door and groped for her keys while the other pried at her honey-blonde ponytail.

Christ, what a day. Maybe it was time to give up the teaching job and try her hand at literally anything else.

It wasn't like she was paid well for her twelve-hour days.

And if she had to read one more half-assed attempt at blank verse or one more mangled metaphor, she might just follow in Sylvia Plath's footsteps and stick her head in the nearest oven.

Assuming, of course, she even had the energy to light the pilot.

The lock finally surrendered to her assault and Martina stumbled inside. She kicked off her flats and flicked on the lights. Her mind was already on frozen pizzas and bottles of red, but she suddenly felt something crunching under her feet.

Martina frowned. Looked down. And froze, one foot hovering comically while her exhaustion-addled brain struggled to process what her eyes were telling her.

Feathers.

Freaking feathers everywhere. Like someone had massacred a pillow factory and decided her hallway was the ideal dumping ground for the carnage.

Martina blinked, wondering if she’d finally cracked and this was some sort of psychotic break. But no, her willpower wasn’t enough to vanish this strange display that had somehow taken up residence in her apartment. The feathery disaster remained stubbornly real.

‘What the hell is this?’

She picked her way through the mess, snatching up a particularly large plume. It was soft between her fingers, almost obscenely so. This wasn't some dollar store craft project gone wrong. These were the real deal.

A hysterical giggle bubbled up in her throat.

Maybe it was Jeff, her sometimes-boyfriend, when she was desperate enough to lower her standards.

Had he finally developed a romantic streak, only to cheap out and substitute feathers for roses?

She should have known better than to date a guy who thought that body spray was the same as showering, but in her defense, she couldn't name a woman in their forties who hadn't made a few bad decisions.

Honestly, she shouldn't be surprised. Her boyfriend's idea of courtship was usually more frat boy than Romeo; bro-hugs and ass-pats with the occasional side of light choking. She supposed she should just be grateful he hadn't opted for gas station flowers.

She dropped the flowers and made for the living room, half-expecting to find a flock of pigeons roosting on her couch.

‘Jeff, you better not be hiding in here,’ Martina shouted. ‘And if you’re wearing a diaper again I’m going to kill you. That wasn’t even funny the first time.’

But the living room remained empty. No boyfriend or rose petals, and certainly a man-baby in an adult nappy. She was greeted only by more of the same feathery chaos, but with an added twist that made her stomach do a nauseating flip.

Signs of life. Recent life.

The throw pillow on her armchair was askew, like someone had just been lounging there.

A trail of dirt marred her otherwise spotless hardwood floor, leading from the balcony to the kitchen and back again.

Martina's eye twitched. She'd sooner cut off her own foot than track mud through the house like some barnyard animal.

Her copy of ‘The Bell Jar’ lay open on the coffee table, a page dog-eared in a way that made her want to scream.

Fifteen years of teaching literature and she still couldn't fathom how anyone could so callously mutilate a book.

‘Jeff?’ she called. ‘If this is your idea of a joke, it’s not funny.’

But the rational part of her brain knew that no way in hell was this Jeff's doing.

The man couldn't even be bothered to take off his shoes in her apartment, let alone stage some bizarre romantic gesture.

And even if he had, by some miracle, developed a single iota of consideration overnight, he sure as hell didn't have a key.

Martina glanced back at the entrance, expecting to see splintered wood or a broken lock.

But no, everything looked intact. Which begged the question: how the hell had someone gotten in?

Goosebumps prickled along Martina’s arms. This wasn't right.

None of this was right. Jeff might be an asshole, but he wasn't exactly known for his subtlety. The man’s idea of foreplay was ‘You up for it?’ Hell, just the other night, he'd spent more time ogling their waitress than looking at Martina across the dinner table.

The man was a dog, pure and simple. And Martina had accepted that, had even convinced herself it was endearing in a caveman sort of way.

This, by contrast, reeked of effort, and that was something Jeff avoided like the plague, right up there with commitment.

Martina strained her ears. She searched for a creaking floorboard, a muffled breath, anything.

But the apartment gave nothing away.

That's when she noticed the balcony door.

The handle was up.

She never left it up.

‘What the…’

Martina's throat clicked as she swallowed, suddenly aware of how dry her mouth had gone.

Had she forgotten to lock the balcony door?

No, impossible. She always checked. Years of city living had embedded that into her skull.

She took a hesitant step forward, then another, all the time skirting the exotic plumage on her floor. Her body was screaming at her to turn tail and run, but some morbid curiosity, or maybe just plain old stubbornness, propelled her forward.

Martina reached out with a trembling hand and grasped the handle.

It turned easily, confirming her fears. Unlocked.

Had she done this? Maybe she'd left it open last night after watering her sad collection of half-dead plants, the ones she kept around more out of obligation.

Steeling herself, Martina pushed the door open and stepped out onto the balcony. She scanned the area, and to her relief, there was nothing out here but a few plants and a watering can.

She let out a deep breath and stuffed down the paranoia clawing its way up her throat. So she'd forgotten to lock her balcony door. Big deal. You forgot things in your forties, apparently. It was kind of comforting to know that she wasn't immune to middle-aged ailments like memory loss.

Mystery solved.

Except it didn’t explain the feather massacre inside.

Or the dirt.

The sun was setting and had painted the sky orange and pink, which would have been beautiful if Martina hadn't been too busy having a low-key panic attack. She leaned against the railing, suddenly reluctant to go back inside. The balcony felt safe, somehow. Open. No place for anyone to hide.

Martina pulled out her phone. Should she call the cops? But what would she say?

Hello, officer. I think someone broke into my apartment to redecorate with feathers.

Still, something wasn't right. The hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention and her brain screamed danger even as her rational mind tried to explain it all away.

She'd dial 911, just to be safe. Better to feel like an idiot than end up as the star of a true crime documentary.

Her thumb tapped the first number and then – a rush of movement behind her, so fast she barely had time to register it.

Then the whistle of something cutting through the air.

Followed by pain, exploding across her skull and obliterating everything in a red haze. She reeled, staggered, dimly aware of her phone slipping from her nerveless fingers to the concrete four floors below.

The last thing Martina saw before the darkness swallowed her was a figure who’d materialized on her balcony.

And he was tall, and had wiry hair like a scarecrow.