Woman on the Edge(25)

Greg was gone. Nicole huddled on the floor with her child. She reached for her phone on the coffee table to call Tessa.

Things were so bad. But how much worse were they going to get?





CHAPTER ELEVEN MORGAN




I stare at my wedding photo that I didn’t put on the nightstand, my heart racing. Is someone in my apartment right now? Have they been in here, hiding, waiting, overnight? I fly out of bed and furiously scan the room. I need something to defend myself. The only thing I find is a pewter candle holder on my dresser. Wielding the candlestick overhead, prepared to smash an intruder in the face, I drop to my knees to check under the bed. Nothing.

I back myself against the wall and tiptoe out of my room, waiting for someone to jump at me. The walls between units are thick, and if I can’t hear my neighbors, they won’t hear me cry out. I whimper, then hold my breath. I’m completely vulnerable and totally defenseless. And if I call 911, I’ll sound like a lunatic—a photo was turned face-up in my apartment, which means someone’s either in my apartment or was in my apartment.

With my heart slamming against my rib cage, I enter the living room. It’s empty. It doesn’t look like anything has been taken: my TV is still mounted on the wall.

I whip open the closet door. No one’s there. But in the bathroom, when I look in the drawers, I can tell they’ve been opened, and my cosmetics have been rummaged through. A roiling, sickening sensation slithers through my stomach. Did someone break in while I was at the police station? While I slept? I know my door was locked last night. But I was so drained I could barely see straight.

The more important question is: Why would anyone break in? I don’t have anything of value. There’s only one plausible answer to why: Nicole or Quinn.

I shudder so hard it hurts. I dart my eyes around. The glass door to the fire escape is slightly ajar. I think it was shut before I went to work yesterday morning. Was it just yesterday that I was at Haven House, content to go home at the end of a productive day, nestle under my soft magenta throw on the couch, and watch TV?

I’m the sole person who’s been here since I moved in. I only open that back door if I’ve cooked something and there’s smoke I need to clear. There’s a staircase leading from the ground floor, no cameras, no security whatsoever. I never realized how unprotected I am here.

I run to the fire exit and lock it, then check the front door, which is already shut and locked. I move into the second bedroom, which I use as an office and storage space. No one there, either. My apartment usually smells of lemon furniture polish. It’s only now that I notice it smells different, like the undertones of sweat.

My papers are still neatly stacked on my desk next to my blue-and-white vintage lamp I found in a thrift shop. I step closer to my desk and bang my shin hard against it because the bottom drawer is sticking out. I had only one piece of paper in there—my unfinished application for the Adoption Center of Illinois. And it’s gone. What importance could it have to anyone but me?

“Why?” I yell into the empty room, the green walls no longer soothing but suffocating. I think of what Nicole said to me on the platform.

I’ve been watching you.

I have to get out of here. Now. I race to my room, snatch my laptop and phone off the bed, and hurry to the front door, still wearing my clothes from last night. I grab my purse, shove my feet into sandals, and bolt, taking the stairs down eight floors. The idea of being confined in the elevator right now petrifies me. I’m going down the steps so quickly I trip over one, and my heart flies to my throat. I slow down.

I never use my car for work, but after what happened at Grand/State, I can’t imagine taking the L today. Moving through the underground lot to my silver Honda, I feel the hair on my arms stand at attention. I remember the method for self-defense my dad taught me and jam the sharp end of my key with my thumb through my index and middle fingers. As I approach my car, I hear a door slam, but I don’t see anyone else in the garage.

I jump into my used Civic. After three tries, because I can’t stop the tremors in my hands, I finally shove the key into the ignition and back out so fast I almost crash into the Toyota parked behind me.

My hands are slippery on the wheel as I ascend the ramp out of the dark garage. I make it to the street and drive toward Haven House. I hit my Bluetooth to call Jessica.

“Someone broke into my apartment.” I tell her about the wedding photo and missing adoption application, my voice pitched in fear.

“Nothing of value was taken?”

“I don’t th-think so,” I stammer.

“Morgan, take a breath. You suffered a trauma last night. You’re not thinking clearly, that’s all.” Then she asks, “You applied to an adoption agency? When?”

“A while ago. I never completed the form. I couldn’t. I had no one left to stand up for me. So I shoved it in the drawer and never looked at it again.” I sob into the phone.

“Okay, try to calm down. You’re fine. Do you have a house cleaner? There has to be an explanation for this.”

I want her to understand the gravity of the situation, but it’s clear to me she doesn’t. “You think I can afford a cleaner? I’m telling you, Jessica, someone broke in. And they weren’t there as petty thieves. Someone’s after me.”

I merge onto the packed 41, feeling like every driver around is watching me.