Page 12 of His Darkest Obsession

Not that a lock has ever stopped me.

One solid kick, and the door splinters inward with a satisfying crack to reveal a small two-bedroom apartment. Not exactly a rarity in this part of the Bronx. The inside is quiet except for the sound of my shoes on the worn linoleum floor. But what intrigues me are the bare walls.

No pictures. No art. Just patches where frames once hung, their ghostly outlines darker than the paint that used to hide under them.

A second-hand couch with a throw blanket draped over worn cushions dominates the living room. The TV stand's empty, the TV that used to sit atop it probably sold a long time ago. Even the kitchen is sparse. Just a few mismatched plates in the dish rack, generic brand cereal boxes lined up on top of the fridge.

But the fridge’s face is blank. There’s nothing personal on it at all.

This place feels... hollow. Like someone's trying to erase themselves.

I open up the fridge and find a small tupperware of half-eaten mashed potatoes. But other than some basic groceries, there’s nothing interesting.

I make my way down the short hallway to investigate the rooms.

The bathroom is small and cramped. When I open the vanity, my eyes are drawn to the bottle of blue hair dye inside it. It'shalf empty, and the label looks worn from handling.Midnight Indigo.

She lives here alright.

I put the hair dye back, walk out of the bathroom, and push open the door to one of the bedrooms.

Choking dust greets me from the moment I walk in, and I suppress a cough. It’s obvious that nobody's been in here for a while. The bed is neatly made and there's a pair of worn pink slippers by the foot of the bed.

I don't like it. It feels like I'm stepping into a time capsule.

No, I think as I take another step into the undisturbed room.

Like I'm stepping into a tomb.

Looking carefully around, I notice that there's a single cardboard box tucked in the corner thatdoesn'thave dust on it. Curiosity pushes me to open it up, and my intrigue intensifies the moment that I do.

A single Columbia University sweatshirt, some course catalogs, and a class schedule from two years ago written in neat handwriting. But again, nothing that offers anything about her identity. No acceptance letter. No homework. No exam papers. No pictures. Not even a student ID.

Weird.

Whatever Indigo Taylor is hiding, she's done a damn good job of it.

I close the box up and walk out of the dusty bedroom.

This second bedroom is different. There are signs of life pulsing through it. Several blouses are draped haphazardly over chair backs. There's a stack of books on one of the desks.

Two single beds occupy opposite walls. Two desks face the window, and they could not be more different. One's covered in a mess of papers, and splayed open textbooks. Pens and pencil are scattered across the surface. The other one is pristine. Everything lined up at right angles, color-coded sticky notes arranged in neat rows.

I pick up a scent in the air. Something light and floral.

The same scent that clung to her hair when she was beneath me at the barbershop, and it’s coming from the neat desk.

On the tidy surface, there’s a to-do list written in precise handwriting:

Go through college applications with Amara

Schedule Amara's dentist appointment