Page 86 of The Night Shift

But I’m not.

No, I’m standing in the middle of my living room wearing last night’s sweaty grave-digging clothes, covered in dirt and blood, feeling an odd wave of sadness as if I just got stood up on mywedding day. Sadness might not be the right word. I’m notsadthat he’s gone. I’m not insane. Disappointment? No, it’s more complicated than that. Worried? Sure. All said and done, Theoisthe only other person, besides Cami, who knows about my homicidal side hustle and now he’s…gone. Gone where? The pits of Hell, I hope.

Has he gone to the police? It’s possible, but highly unlikely. He had three whole years to do that. Why would he turn me in now? Theo might be fucked in the head, but he’s not an idiot. He helped me hide those bodies too. He’s an accomplice and is well aware of it. So, no. Not worried. Not really, at least. Am I annoyed? Yeah. That seems more logical. That’s what this is. I’m annoyed. Annoyed at him for leaving without telling me. Annoyed at myself for thinking about him first thing in the morning.

His words echo in my brain like a broken tape recorder.You’re safe with me. You’re safe with me. You’re safe with me.

I want to kick myself. I feel like such an idiot. I am supposed to despise this man. I am supposed to hate his guts. I’m not supposed to be outsmarted by his charming grin and sweet words and actuallyfeel“safe” just because he told me so. But it’s as if his voice was laced with some kind of black magic, toxic and thrilling, softening the walls around my resolve.

Maybe I was just too tired.

Yes. That’s what it was. Extreme exhaustion and an unwillingness to argue got the better of me.

Still, I can’t believe he just left like that.

A small voice goes off in my head.Of course, he’s gone, it tells me.Why would he stay? You stabbed him, threatened to kill him — not once, but multiple times. I scoff. At whom, I’m not quite sure. Yeah, so what if I stabbed him and gave him death threats? He totally deserved it! The man stalked me for almost three years, what else was I supposed to do? Bake him cupcakes?And it’s not like I wanted him to stay till I woke up. He just made it seem like he was planning on staying. That’s all.

Whatever. Fuck this shit.

I throw my phone on the couch and let the draped blanket fall to the floor, turning around to pivot towards the kitchen, ready to drown my irritation in a cup of much needed coffee. That’s precisely when I see the extravagant breakfast spread laid out on the counter. Pancakes, fluffy and golden, piled high with blueberries and drizzled with a red syrup that glistens like…blood.

What the fuck?

Mouth half agape, I approach the pretty pancakes like they’re a ticking time bomb and dip a hesitant finger into the crimson syrup. A fruity tang prickles my tongue. Raspberries. There’s some buttered toast too. With the crusts cut off.

My gaze lands on a tiny piece of paper propped against the plate. A note. I pick it up and see my name sprawled across the front. The edges of the note are feathered with a faint perfume. I unfold the paper and I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it sure as fuck wasn’t this.

Heart doodles — childishly scrawled yet somehow menacing against the stark white background — adorn the margins. But it is the message itself that steals my breath and sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the autumn chill creeping through the window:

Good morning, love.

Went home to get dressed for work. Hope you enjoy the morbid pancakes.

Yours always, Theo.

(P.S: Took back my phone from your jacket pocket. Hope that’s okay!)

The urge to scream comes harder and deeper than usual.

Yours always?

YOURSALWAYS?

Anger floods in, hot and immediate, pushing aside the unexpected flutter of my heart. What kind of twisted, psychopathic bullshit is this? It’s one thing to stalk me and sneak into my apartment behind my back, but this? Even after he knows thatI know? It’s insulting. Is he not even a little bit afraid of me or what I’m capable of? What a raging asshole! Who the hell does he think he is? I read the note again. It makes my skin crawl. The possessive “yours always” feels like a branding iron, searing its mark onto my skin. Theo Carter isnotmine. And I am most definitely not his. Ugh, as if! I'm not some porcelain doll he can add to his twisted stalker collection! Not that any of that is implied by this…this extremely rude and inconsiderate note. Not that I want it to be implied.

My cheeks burn, a flush of anger battling with something else, something I can't quite name. I crumple the note and hurl the entire plate of pancakes into the trash.

Anger still simmering within me, I chug my cup of coffee, my cheeks still hot and my emotions swirling like smoke.

Twenty minutes, a quick shower, and lots of concealer later, I’m all dressed up for work.

I grab my bag and pager and scramble out of my apartment. My movements are jerky, and my brain is on autopilot. I walk out the elevator and towards the building exit when I see a figure on the other side of the door. Again not Theo.

No, this man is much more broad-shouldered and tense. He’s hunched over the building lock, his fingers fumbling with the doorknob. My eyes narrow, every sense on high alert. Ready to pounce. He glances up, our eyes meeting in a silent standoff. He has blond, unruly hair and is wearing a gray hoodie. He looks familiar. His face is etched with frustration and there's a flicker of something…off in his gaze. It’s not the usual male predatorygleam — I’m way too familiar with that, thank you very much — but something a bit more raw. Something akin to panic.

“Can I help you?” I ask, the words tumbling out of me before I can stop them.

“Uh, yeah,” he mumbles, eyes darting around my face. “Lost my card, I think.”