One Good Reason (Boston Love #3)(77)
“I hate you all,” I inform them, turning and stomping for the doors. “And I will not be accepting any job offers if it means my bad-assery is called into question on a regular basis.”
The sound of muffled laughter chases me all the way to the doors.
* * *
Parker’s in an annoyingly good mood all the way back to my loft. He gropes me playfully in the elevator, whispering scandalous things in my ear to make me laugh the entire ride up to my floor.
His joking, happy mood disintegrates as soon the doors slide open and we see the disaster site that used to be my apartment.
My laptop is cracked in two, lying in pieces on the cold concrete floor. Someone’s smashed every one of my computer monitors with what looks like a baseball bat — there’s no way they can be salvaged. My coffee table has been flipped on its side, scattering documents everywhere. Even from my spot by the door, I can see the hard copies from the Lancaster investigation are missing. The folders I painstakingly organized with printed copies of all the evidence I’ve spent weeks gathering are gone.
My bed is in tatters, gutted with some kind of sharp blade, as are my sofa cushions. Most disturbingly, though, are the photographs taped my my refrigerator.
Whoever is trailing me has been busy. There are pictures from the day I visited the Lynn factory, from my walk home in the snow, from my lunch with the girls at Crumble. There are even stills from the surveillance tape at Lancaster Consolidated, the night I dressed as Cindy the cater-waiter.
I suppose it was only a matter of time, before they put that together.
Each photo was taken from a careful distance, but it’s clear they’re the work of a professional. Especially given the photoshopping treatment they’ve received: every frame contains the bright red crosshairs of a sniper rifle over my profile.
As threats go, it’s not a subtle one.
Keep this up and we’ll kill you.
Parker shoves me behind him as his eyes move around the space, searching for intruders.
“They’re long gone,” I say quietly.
“Fuck,” he curses lowly, running a hand through his hair. “At least you weren’t here when they did this. If you’d been here…” His eyes move to the monitors, destroyed with brute force by someone with a significant amount of strength. “I don’t even want to think about that.”
I step up to his side and lace my fingers with his. “Don’t think about it.”
His furious hazel eyes lock on the photographs of me taped to the fridge and I see whatever sense of calm he was hanging onto slip from his grasp like a handful of sand.
“I’m going to f*cking kill them.”
“Parker.” I squeeze his hand. “They wouldn’t be going through all this trouble to scare us if we hadn’t rattled them. Don’t you see? In a sick, weird, twisted way… this is a good thing. It means we’re getting close to nailing them.”
My words seem to soothe him — fractionally. His jaw unclenches a bit as he surveys the damage, but he still looks about ready to blow a gasket.
“There’s no way they got in through the elevator without a key.” He looks at me. “Who else has access? Your landlord? An ex? A previous tenant?”
I shake my head. “No. Luca has one, I have one. That’s it. Whoever did this must’ve climbed the fire escape.”
Parker strides to the opposite side of the loft, tugging me after him. Sure enough, when we reach the windows by the fire escape we find two of the panes are bashed in. The flimsy brass lock is snapped like plastic.
I suck in a breath.
Abruptly, Parker drops my hand and paces away, leaving me by the window. I don’t follow him. My eyes are stuck on that broken lock, and I can’t seem to look away. All at once, my careful sense of calm evaporates as reality sets in.
Someone was in my home. In my private space.
Sure, the loft leaves much to be desired. But it's always been mine. And now, someone's invaded that space. Taken my sanctuary and dirtied it, violated it, until I no longer feel secure in the only place I've ever been able to call home.
That f*cking sucks, if I’m being honest.
I look around for Parker, assuming he’s on the phone with Nate, and instead find him by my dresser, indiscriminately jamming clothes into a bag.
“What are you doing?” I screech, watching as three of my sweaters and a faded pair of jeans are shoved inside the duffle.
“I’m f*cking packing,” he snaps, never pausing. “Someone was in your home. Someone destroyed everything you’ve built here. Your work. Your life.” His voice is a growl. “You're not spending another night in this place until this shit is handled.”
“But—”
“In fact, even after it’s handled you’re not coming back here," he mutters. “If you never spend another night in this place again it'll be too soon, the way I see it.”
“No one asked how you see it!” I exclaim, walking toward him and trying to pull the bag from his grip. He just lifts his arm so I can't reach and, damn it, I'm too proud to jump like a kid playing keep-away.
“Parker—”
“Hush.”
“Don't tell me to hush, playboy!” I hiss. "Just where exactly do you expect me to stay? This is my home. We don't all own property on three different private islands."