Page 2 of Stained Protector

Even to this day, our family has never seen this unnamed man.

A learned mistake opens its cover, freely giving me all the signs of heartbreak, but I willingly walk into the apartment of a man that every cell in my body denies.

“Here.” He hands over a water bottle, the cold plastic calming the flaring heat and tremors in my palms.

“Thank you,” I croak, paying close attention to the cap and its clacking sound as a twist breaks the seal.

I watch the muscles on his back tighten as he pulls out the groceries. His long legs effortlessly take him to the stainless-steel refrigerator, and those burly arms raise to place the brown paper bag on top of the fridge alongside the others.

Sharp lines and harsh black ink peek from his sleeve. I stare in admiration, wishing for a few more seconds to marvel at the contrast between the stunning design and his skin tone.

I take a deep breath, eyes falling on the uncapped water, before drinking more to subdue the hideous purr in my throat.

Apprehension and suspicion never leave, just sitting on the sideline as they helplessly watch curiosity break through the fragile glass of vigilance.

Stop, stop, stop…

The soothing smell of a candle devours the mantra. Then, his scent latches onto my thoughts, circling aimlessly as he takes a seat not too far from me.

“Are you alright?” he asks again, lacing his fingers together loosely as his forearms lean on his knees. “You were a little pale.”

“Just tired from work.”

We fall into silence, and my toes curl awkwardly in my socks. At least I wasn’t dazed enough to forget the decency to take off my shoes.

Levi doesn’t pry, instead offering a helpful suggestion. “If I’m not at work, then I’ll always be home. If you need anything, just knock.”

Out of courtesy, I nod with a smile. I’m not going to jump up and start accusing him of breaking into my home when I don’t have proof. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure if it’s him.

Ruling out monetary motives, which I have none of, I can’t think of anything that would explain why someone is so obsessed with my apartment. Way too many horror references to count, but there is a movie about the miserable concierge chloroforming women for sinister purposes.

Could it be about the missing women the news has been covering over the last few months?

The Phoenix police department hasn’t released a statement yet, but some people are starting to notice the pattern of physically similar women disappearing. Their personal, work, and social lives don’t overlap, nor do they have much in common for the police to draw a serial kidnapping conclusion.

“Have you seen anything suspicious the past weeks?” I ask tentatively.

“Specifics?” His gaze climbs from my neck, sealing a firm connection between our eyes as my back grows colder.

“Someone broke into my apartment,” I mumble and squeeze the crinkling bottle. “I know it. My things aren’t where I left them, and I can smell it—the cigarette smoke, it’s there.”

There is a no-smoking and no-pet rule in the building. It doesn’t stop some tenants from hiding pets and smoking habits, but the stench shouldn’t only come from my apartment. It’s faint, not the way it would travel from where the smoker was.

Levi’s room smells of the lit candle, acrylic paint, and a woody aroma. It reeks of art.

A grim tremor rises, worsened with laughable comfort that I naively accept solely from the soothing atmosphere instead of fleeing.

“Ah, the police from before,” he voices, a tone of understanding. “I gather they couldn’t help?”

His correct assumption is an arrow to my gut.

“I can have a look at your locks tomorrow,” he poses, and the suggestion waltzes through my hazy fatigue.

His voice is like clockwork, ticking persistently as the edges of furniture and distorting book spines start to fiddle with my eyes.

I’m not so naïve as to believe he’s helping me out of the kindness of his heart when black curtains are drawing over my consciousness.

*

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