Page 12 of Reckless
“Don’t touch anything.”
When did he pull out a gun? I didn’t even realize he had one on him. I pick my way through the mess without drawing mine, my phone hanging from my limp hand, forgotten. Whoever did this is long gone. The apartment is silent, deadly silent.
Someonedefinitelywants me gone.
But who? How could I have made an enemy here already? I’ve been in L.A. less than a month. I haven’t even been here long enough to piss anyone off.
Have I?
Chapter Six
Griffin
If she’d been home when her place had been broken into . . .
I push the thought from my mind.
She wasn’t.
She’s here.
She’s safe.
I keep one ear tuned for her in the living room as I do a sweep of the other rooms in her apartment. The bathroom, bedroom, and laundry are clear, but I keep my gun drawn. All of the rooms are as equally trashed as the living room. Whoever did this took their time to destroy as much as they could. I make a mental note to ask her if she knows anyone who may be keeping a grudge.
When I’m done, I find her in the living room, sitting on the destroyed couch and holding a framed picture I recognize to be of her family.
“Is anything of value missing?” I ask. When she doesn’t answer, I go and kneel in front of her. With my free hand, I touch her shoulder. She finally looks up at me, her gaze shuttered and wrecked.
“Huh?” she says.
“I asked if you had any valuables in the house. Something a thief may have been after.”
She shakes her head, her expression dazed and wan. “No, nothing. I didn’t bring much when I moved. Anything valuable I left with my family in Florida. They were going to send it once I got settled in.”
“Can you think of anyone who may have a grudge? Maybe someone at work who wanted a job of yours or an old boyfriend.”
“W-what?”
“Is there someone who may want to hurt you? Someone who knows where you live or someone from work?”
“I barely know anyone here. There is no reason for anyone to hate me this much.” She gestures to her trashed apartment.
“Someone from home, maybe? An ex-boyfriend? A former friend.”
Something flickers behind her eyes, but she shakes her head. “There’s no one, I promise. I don’t go around making enemies. All I do is work. I haven’t had time to piss anyone off.”
Before I can ask any other questions, she gets to her feet, her hand expertly and efficiently gripping a gun. When she moves in the direction of her room, I follow. “What are you doing?”
She turns, her eyes dead tired and a little annoyed. “I’m going to get whatever clothes weren’t ruined so I can stay the night at a hotel. Then I’m going to wait for the police so they can take a statement and see what prints or whatever they can get from here. You can go home. Whoever did this is long gone, but thank you so much for everything you’ve done. I really do appreciate it.” With that, she turns and heads down the hall, and I bite back my reminder for her not to touch anything because she could ruin evidence.
If I expect her to burst into tears and fall into my arms, I’m sorely disappointed. And so will she be if she really thinks I’m going any-fucking-where at a time like this.
While she packs a bag, I take out my cell phone and type out a quick email, hoping to pull in a favor. Maybe we can pull some strings and get this made a priority. There’ll be questions, sure. I’ve never pulled a favor for a woman, but I don’t give a fuck. I’m just finishing up the email when Phoebe comes back into the room with a small bag slung over one shoulder.
There are dark shadows beneath her eyes. She looks wrecked. I don’t blame her. This sort of violation is intimate, harrowing. Someone wanted to hurt her, not only physically, because I’m sure they would have if they had the chance. But they wanted to hurt her in the one place where she should feel comfortable and safe.
“I thought you left,” she says.