Page 67 of Mercenary

He tugs me along across the street, then randomly rings several apartment buzzers before someone unlocks the door. There’s no elevator in the lobby so we climb five floors, with him dropping my hand to lead the way. I huff and puff by the time we stop, then give a mental eye roll, noting how Declan is barely winded.

He’s built like a tank, with his lungs made of pure steel.

I follow him to the end of a long, dimly lit hallway to stand before apartment 7C. A cool breeze drifts in from an open hallway window. It should feel refreshing after my climb but instead a chill sweeps across me.

“Wait,” I demand.

Declan hesitates midswipe, the credit card he’s removed from his wallet wedged between the door and the doorjamb.

I’ve become an expert in compartmentalizing my pain. Storing it deep inside where no one, not even myself, can fully access it. Ignoring it as best as I can. Yet there’s a strong chance my sister’s inside. Reality might literally be about to stare me in the face.

All my questions . . . worries . . . answered.

For better or for worse.

You can do this.

I’ve survived Mama’s death, my sister’s abandonment, nearly being killed in Cabo.

Him.

No, survive isn’t the right word.

Come to trust him?

Come to lust after him?

Both.

“Okay?”

“Yes,” I manage to reply, staring at the open window at the end of the hallway.

“Stay here while I check things out.”

I hesitate. You need to know the truth, I remind myself. Why would Kylie have an apartment here in Dayton? How long has she been here? Is she . . . okay?

“Madelyn.”

“What?” I look up at him.

“Stop biting your lip. The apartment will be empty. Mark my words.” He presses a code to open one lock, then swipes the card downward on a second lock, turning the door handle before pushing into the apartment.

I follow along anyway, wondering what he’s trying to protect me from.

Declan disappears first into one bedroom, then the other, as I look around.

The apartment isn’t much to write home about. An old leather couch is pushed against one wall. An empty coffee table sits in front of it. No television. No carpeting on the hardwood floorboards. Just a couch, a side table with lamp, and a large, sturdy dining-room table and chairs. I glance inside the kitchen area. A half-full cup of coffee sits on the countertop next to a neatly folded newspaper. The print is too small to make out the date from where I stand.

Folding my arms across my chest, I cradle myself into a hug as I rock back and forth on my heels. Apartment 7C is as empty as I suddenly feel.

I inhale deeply, a fortifying breath. That’s when it hits me . . . the scent of Pine-Sol . . .

Declan returns to the open living room/dining area and kitchen. Newly cleaned kitchen, from the smell of it. “No one’s home.”

He approaches, and I stop rolling. With a finger, he raises my chin. I spy the frown lines across his brow.

“Relax. She’s not here.”