Page 13 of Reckless
“Nope. The cops should be here soon, though.”
She nods. “Thanks. Do you want a cup of coffee, if it survived? Take the definition of cup loosely because I’m not sure what dishes I have left at the moment.”
Wanting to keep her busy, I say, “Sure, that’s fine.”
Phoebe puts her bag on what used to be her dining room table and begins to hunt through her cabinets for dishes that aren’t smashed beyond recognition. There aren’t any, but she does manage to find some Dixie cups for us to use.
Giving me an apologetic smile, she says, “I’ll deal with the police a lot more coherently if I have a shot of caffeine. Otherwise, I might keel over right here on this mess.”
“They shouldn’t take up too much of your time. Do you know if you have a security system?”
“I do. I hadn’t had the chance to set it up, though. I haven’t been here that long, and I honestly didn’t think anything like this would ever happen. My father will probably tell me I-told-you-so once he tracks down whoever did this,Taken- style.”
“I won’t say I told you so,” I tell her, and she manages a small smile.
She settles onto the couch next to me and takes long sips from her cup of coffee. She could have panicked, broken down crying, or become hysterical, but she seems as calm as I am. Maybe calm isn’t the right word. She’s alert. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed. I wouldn’t have judged her for breaking down, don’t get me wrong. A break-in is an egregious violation of personal space and privacy. Hysterical would be a valid response.
Once the cops arrive and begin taking her statement, my admiration for her grows. She’s clear and concise as she recounts the events of the night, starting from when she left work, and doesn’t blink an eyelash when they request to see her license to carry her weapons. Almost two hours later, they finish and take an SD card from the complex’s security footage for review as well as her phone, and she closes the door behind them.
“You didn’t have to stay the whole time. I know it’s late.”
“It’s no problem. Besides, you need a ride to whatever hotel you’re going to.”
She seems to deflate in front of me when she realizes I’m right. “Fine, but that’s it. This isn’t your responsibility. I hope you know of a decent one for me to crash at while I deal with getting this place cleaned up.”
I lay a hand on her shoulder, and she glances up at me. “You don’t mean you’re going to continue to stay here.”
“Why wouldn’t I? It’s my apartment, and I’m not going to let some psycho drive me away from my own home. I’m not an idiot. I plan to beef up my security system and get another lock or two for my door. If someone really is out to get me, and this isn’t just a random break-in, then it doesn’t really matter where I am, does it? They’ll find me wherever I go.”
I want to shake some sense into her. “At least stay at the hotel until the police finish their investigation. Maybe they’ll catch whoever did this in a few days.”
“I’ll have to do that anyway for my landlord to get this place cleaned up. Thank God I have renter’s insurance and didn’t have a ton of stuff here yet.”
There’s no point in locking the door, but she does anyway. The police learned that whoever had broken in had busted out the back sliding door to gain access. The sliding glass door in Phoebe’s bedroom. If she’d been home, she would have been as vulnerable as a lamb for slaughter. The thought makes my blood run cold. I want to point this out to her, but she’s been through enough tonight. I’ll bring it up when she’s had some more sleep.
Once we have more information from the police about the security footage, I’ll find a way to press my advantage and convince her to move somewhere else until the creep is caught. Until then, a hotel will be as safe as anywhere else.
I take her to the best, most exclusive hotel in L.A. because I know it has top-notch security.
“No, I can’t stay here,” she says when she notices the name on the building. “I can’t afford this place.”
“Who said you had to afford it?” I give my key to the valet, which means she has to get out or be driven away with the GT.
“Griffin,” she says to my back as I walk away. “Griffin!”
I ignore her all the way up to the front door. I ignore her again as I talk to the clerk at the front desk. And I push her hands away when she tries to use her own credit card to pay for the suite. When she tries to object, I talk over her to the slightly amused desk clerk, who hands me the keys to the penthouse, which can only be accessed by a private elevator. No one without a key to the elevator can get to her room.
“Are you always this stubborn?” she asks when we reach her room. “Or is today extra special?”
“Pretty much always.”
“If I weren’t so tired and didn’t have to get up in”—she checks her phone—“four hours, I’d march you right back downstairs and make you get a refund for this place.”
“Consider it a gift.”
“I can’t accept it. I’ll pay you back.”
“The room is eleven hundred dollars a night.”