Page 6 of Until Mayhem

Blond hair.

And twenty-two years old.

Fuckin’ hell.

“We can’t just walk in there,” Jury said.

I smirked and rattled her keys. “That’s exactly what we’re doin’.”

Ignoring his loud protests and the muttered complaints that followed, I headed into the building, glancing at the labeled mailboxes as I passed.

Kline, 5C.

No one said shit to me as I stalked through the lobby to the elevator. Partly because people usually didn’t say jack-shit to me, but also because I walked with confidence. Like I belonged there.

For a nice place, the security’s shit.

It wasn’t until the elevator doors were sliding open that Jury had my back.

“You’re out of your damn mind,” he grumbled, following me in.

“Yup.”

I leaned against the wall, careful to keep my head angled away from the camera.

Jury did the same, asking, “What exactly is your plan?”

“Get in, search her place.”

“And if she checks out? You’ll let her go?”

Never.

Scowling, I shrugged. “Cross that bridge when we get there.”

“More like burn it.”

When the elevator doors slid open, we got off and found her apartment. Pushing aside the obvious car key, I tried another one, but it only went in halfway before getting stuck.

“Shit.” I gripped the doorknob to yank the key free, but the knob turned, the door swinging open. “What the hell?”

Jury gave a low whistle and walked in. “Either this chick is Hoarders messy, or she’s got shit luck, and we’re not the first B&E she’s had today.”

I crouched to inspect the door and frame. There were gashes and missing chunks in the wood. The damage was minimal, but based on her shitty lock, it wouldn’t have taken much to jimmy the thing open.

Moving before someone saw us and got the wrong—or half-wrong—idea, I pulled my gun from my ankle and followed Jury, closing the door behind me.

Shit, it’s even worse

On a regular day, the apartment had probably been nice.

But it sure as shit hadn’t been a regular day. Every cabinet in the kitchen was open and emptied, the floor and counters covered in food, dishes, and broken glass.

The living room was worse. Like a damn tornado had gone through, every last book, cushion, pillow, and picture had been thrown around.

Kicking the mess, I flipped a few of the shattered frames to check out the pictures. Some were of other chicks around her age. There was one of an older couple in front of the Grand Canyon. And there was one of Ophelia with two women at a club or bar. I picked it up for a closer look. Their hair was messy, their cheeks flushed and makeup smudged. She was in the middle, her arms thrown around them as they grinned at the camera.

I went to toss it aside but looked over my shoulder. With Jury’s focus on the closet, I pulled the picture from the frame and pocketed it.

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