Page 16 of Blake

She stepped farther into the apartment, careful not to cut herself on the shards of broken glass that littered the floor like glitter. Did Scarface do this? How did he find out where she lived? Was he still lurking nearby, waiting for her to let her guard down?

Her gaze was drawn to the wall opposite her, where a chilling message was scrawled in what appeared to be blood-red paint.

"STOP DIGGING OR YOU'RE NEXT, BITCH BABY."

Bitch baby?

Oh no.

She ran into the bedroom, seeing her Little stuff scattered around the room. Some of it looked wet, like it had been . . . She grimaced. Yep. She was pretty sure that was urine on some of her Little clothes. That was the disgusting smell she’d caught upon entering the apartment.

She choked out a sob. “How can they make outI’mdisgusting when they’d do something like this?”

She looked around the room, trying to figure out which of her clothes were safe to take and which she’d have to say goodbye to forever.

And that’s when she saw the small pile of books at the end of her bed.

She’d put that pile of books there a few days ago and rested her secret camera on it. To make sure her secret camera worked, she had recorded herself sitting on her bed, cuddling her stuffie as she wore a cute little romper with yellow ducks on it.

A romper which was now lying on her bed, soaked in a stranger’s pee.

“I’m so stupid!” she shouted. She had never deleted that file from her secret camera. She had even talked on the video, saying her name and a few silly things to make herself laugh. And then the guy at the Lucifer Club had found her secret camera and he must have watched the whole thing back.

He’d seen her in Little Space.

The thought made her instantly want to vomit.

The most private, secret thing about herself—even more private than her journalism—had been exposed. And so, as it happened, had her journalism. She had nothing left.

She felt the tears streaming down her cheeks.

Should she call the police?

No. It’s not like the work she did wasillegal, but she definitely operated on the fringes. With her history, having grown up in foster care, she knew she wouldn’t be taken seriously. And once they discovered what she did for a living—well, for all Savannah knew, some of the cops were in on the trafficking ring too. She had a feeling there were some high-up people involved, and it was likely those guys would want to silence her as much as whoever had done this to her apartment.

Her eyes scanned the room, searching for something—anything—that could offer even the smallest sense of comfort. And then she spotted him, half-buried beneath the dirty clothes on her bed: Mr. Whiskers, the plush cat she'd had since her days in foster care.

"Oh, Mr. Whiskers, thank goodness you’re okay!” she gasped, crossing the room to dig him out of his hiding place. Luckily, he was dry. The thought of her beloved stuffie witnessing the horrible act that had taken place here made her mad.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Whiskers. You didn’t deserve to see this. But we've been through worse, right?" she whispered, her voice shaking as she tried to muster a smile. The stuffed animal,though silent, seemed to offer a glimmer of reassurance. “What we went through back at the foster home . . .”

She wiped her eyes, trying to force herself to stop crying. She had to be brave. After all, she had put herself in danger for a good reason. She was doing all this for her best friend, Mia. For Mia's sake, she needed to keep going.

Savannah took a deep breath and scanned the wreckage of her apartment, searching for any clue as to who had invaded her sanctuary. She knew she couldn't just sit here, frozen in fear. Fear wouldn't bring Mia back or help her expose the truth. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to think rationally.

"Alright, let's figure this out, Mr. Whiskers," she muttered, her voice steadier than she felt. “Do we think Scarface did this? Did he see my video then come here to . . . pee on my stuff?”

She went back into the living room, leaning against the overturned couch, her eyes darting around. And that's when she noticed her empty desk.

Her laptop was missing.

Her heart sank. All her research, all her leads—gone in an instant. Her desk drawers were hanging open, also empty.

Oh god. Her pen drives. Her files.

Everything had gone.

Her life’s work.

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