Page 134 of Under the Bed

I whip my head to the side, verifying what my heart already knows. “Shiloh.”

Nothing.

I’m out of bed, throwing on a pair of clean boxers, jeans, and a hoodie from the dresser.

“Shi,” I warn, shoving socks over my feet and wrangling into my sneakers.

Of course she doesn’t answer. I can tell she’s gone.

I have to find her.

My chest squeezes when I see her note on the kitchen counter.

Be right back. Love you.

The nauseating feeling that tightened its grip on me when I woke up persists. My chest, fuck, it hurts.

I know where she is, and it isn’t at the police station. She would’ve woken me up for that. Wouldn’t have needed to sneak out.

She’s outside doing something she shouldn’t.

Something I wouldn’t approve of.

A short trip somewhere. Where?

Be right back.

She. Snuck. Out.

Alarm bells go off in my head.

It could be…

No.

No.

One stop to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face, and I’m out the door.

My hoodie is pulled up to hide most of my face. The shadows hide my distinctive gold eyes in case that indie reporter thinks it’s wise to come snooping.

She mentioned that her dad paid him off. I checked his blog last night when she dozed off in my embrace.

Radio silence, as expected.

For now.

See, the thing about people is that they lie. He could have taken the money and then stalked us anyway.

Therefore, my hoodie.

I’m not getting caught.

I’m going to find her.

Clouds hang low in the sky, painting the neighborhood in gray. A quick scan tells me that there’s no one lurking around her apartment building. Not a reporter.

Not her.

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