Page 51 of Callan

I roll my eyes.

Maybe I should pretend I’m not home, although it’s probably too late for that. If I’ve been followed, the person knows exactly that I’m here.

How did he get in?

He must've used the passcode.

Like the two men who visited Carmen.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me, Callan,” he says evenly, and a sigh of relief rolls from my lips before I’m quickly doused in anxiety again.

Ugh.

He’s paying me.

So I sort of have to open the door for him.

Besides, I was looking for him.

I slide the door open, and his dark, imposing silhouette towers over me.

It was him in that doorway.

It was definitely him.

My mouth falls open.

“Were you…?”

My voice trails off before he nudges me to the side and enters my apartment like he’s living here.

I let the door fall closed.

“Have you been following me?” I ask behind him.

“Did I have a choice?” he tosses back at me. “What were you doing over there?” he asks, pivoting to me and moving his eyes around my place.

He wears perfectly pressed black pants, fancy shoes, and a short double-breasted coat. The starched collar of his dress button-down shirt stands out against his complexion.

Sleek gloves sheathe his hands.

He looks like he has stepped out of a theater. Or the Opera House. He looks like he belongs in Manhattan more than in Brooklyn. He also looks like a hitman.

The expensive kind.

I suck in a short breath while regaining my composure.

“I was looking for you.”

His eyes flick to me.

“What made you think I’d be there?”

“There is where I found you the last time I looked for you.”

He gives me a half nod.

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