Secret Obsession: Chapter 17

We park outside my apartment, and Miles joins me on the curb. It seems he’s intent on not letting me out of his sight. He’s my shadow up the walkway, but when I pause on the doorstep outside the house, he doesn’t miss a beat. His hands catch my hips, but he doesn’t so much as bump into me.

Because he’s seeing the same thing I am.

The lock is broken. The whole door is slightly off, not quite closed. The cold wind whistles past us, but my muscles are already frozen.

“Stay here.” Miles slips past me.

I open my mouth to call him back, then glance around.

There’s no fucking way I’m waiting out here. I follow him in. There are shards of wood from the jamb on the floor. I’m on Miles’ heels going up the stairs, and he casts a warning look back at me.

I meet his glare with one of my own.

He sighs and shakes his head, but that seems to be the end of it. We get upstairs, and I grab the back of his jacket. My door is ajar. Similarly kicked in, with wood splinters on the floor just inside.

Miles switches tactics, suddenly pulling me closer behind him. We enter the apartment silently, creeping forward. My breath catches in my throat at the damage. My place has been torn apart—the couch upended, the coffee table cracked. Things yanked out of my kitchen cabinets and strewn across the floor and counters. The kitchen table’s shoved against the far wall, chairs knocked over. Even my plants have been damaged, torn from their pots. There’s dirt all over the living room, glass and ceramic in the kitchen. Silence surrounds us. It feels like the apartment itself is holding its breath.

Miles glances at me, then moves forward. Toward my bedroom.

I stop moving.

He goes on ahead, the gleam of his blade in his hand. But he checks my room and reappears a moment later, his brows furrowed.

“You need to call the police,” he says.

There’s a ringing in my ears.

I’m standing right where Miles killed the man.

“You want me to call the police,” I repeat, my voice hoarse. “So they can come snoop around my destroyed apartment where you murdered someone?”

Miles rolls his eyes. “They won’t be looking for anything like that. Besides, no body, no crime. Call them, Willow.”

With shaking hands, I call 9-1-1. I’ve had to call them before, but never for myself. There’s a click as it connects to an operator, and I explain as clearly as I can that there’s been a break-in. I don’t know if anything is missing. Probably. There’re damages—isn’t that enough?

“They’ll be here soon,” I tell him.

He nods and rights one of the kitchen chairs. I fidget by the doorway, unsure of what to do or where to stand. After a moment of silence, that seems to just be stretching longer, I head to my refrigerator. I pull the vodka from the freezer and soda water from the fridge. There’s stuff all over the floor. Broken ceramic and coffee from a mug leftover from the morning before. Glass in the sink.

Miles’ gaze is hot on me as I mix the drink in an ice-filled glass, adding a splash of cranberry juice on top. I take a sip and close my eyes. I set it down and grip the counter, but none of this feels real.

In a way, I’m not connected to any of it.

“Come sit down,” Miles says. “You’re going to step on glass.”

I grimace. I already feel the bite of something in the arch of my right foot. A piece of glass slicing through the sole of my boot makes sense, I guess. If I have the shittiest luck in the world. And judging from the state of my apartment…

I ignore it and walk to him. Each step on my right foot hurts worse, but I make it to the table and my own chair. I sink into it and lean back, taking another gulp of the vodka soda.

Vodka gives me more of a fuzzy feeling. Unlike whiskey, which sits like smoke in my chest, or tequila, that burns. I like that vodka shaves down my edges.

His gaze remains steady on me.

“Why are you still here?” I ask him.

His lips quirk. “Did you think I was going to leave?”

“Yes.” It’s honest. I did expect him to leave, multiple times.

“I’m not going to.”

It’s not my fault I don’t believe him. It’s just been proven, time and again, that people leave.

We lapse into silence until the police arrive. Miles hears them open the door downstairs, their voices carrying up to us, and he steps into the hall to meet them.

I take that opportunity to lift my foot and inspect the bottom. There’s a sliver of glass between the treads of my boot, and I tug it out in one quick motion.

The pain is almost blinding. White spots flicker at my vision as agony lances up my leg.

“Oh my God, Willow,” Miles says, but it sounds really far away. “We’ll go to the hospital when we’re done.”

I’m too busy staring at the amount of blood on the shard of glass. The shard that’s way bigger than I anticipated.

“Ma’am—” The police officer stops. “Is this your apartment?”

I drop the piece of glass on the table. “Yes.”

My head is woozy. I blink slowly and reach for my drink. In the background, Miles is spinning some tale. Or maybe it’s the truth that he’s giving them. Some of it anyway. That we were here this morning and then left to meet a friend.

I hear Steele’s name.

A lie, then.

“Willow.”

I run my finger along the edge of the bloodstained glass. It still has a bite to it. Sharp little fucker.

“Willow.” Miles grabs my hand and yanks it off the table. His palm connects with mine, his fingers pressing into my wrist. “We’re going to urgent care. They’ll look at your foot.”

Right.

He picks me up. Not over the shoulder, which seems to be his favorite way to transport me. But nicely. Arm under the back of my knees, one around my back. The police follow us down, and I vaguely catch that they want to know if there’s anything missing.

Miles doesn’t know. I don’t either.

And I never saw my room.

“I need to call Violet,” I mumble. I pat myself down for my phone. “I’ll sleep on her couch.”

“No, you won’t.”

My gaze lifts. “What?”

“You’ll stay with me.” He glances at me, his jaw tight. “Don’t fight me on this.”

I sag back into the seat. I want to fight him, but I don’t have any more energy left. Just a hum of something numb running under my skin.

The scary part is—I don’t think I quite mind the numbness.