Page 45 of By the Book

“I support this,” says Stevie.

“I love this,” agrees Wren. “It’s about time one of us has some fun again.”

“It’s about time these two admit how obsessed they are with each other,” Poppy adds.

“But we keep getting interrupted. I think we got close yesterday at my store and then my mom and Wes showed up. And after he finished getting a security camera installed, he left while my brother was still there. So, it’s not like we could talk about anything that almost happened there. I mean, do I just text him and say come over? That’s a little too…” I scrunch my nose in dismay.

“Too perfect? He’d be there in record time,” Poppy grins.

“Let’s go back to what was interrupted,” Stevie says, shooting me a wide-eyed look. “How do you meanclose?”

“His hand was hitching up my skirt,” I admit, heat rushing to my face. “But he still hasn’t kissed me! Well, he did kiss my forehead…”

“Why don’t you kiss him?” Wren asks.

“I’d really like to.” I smile to myself, a flutter erupting in my chest. “I just… I want it to be more than concern, emotions around this break in. I want him, everyone really, to see that I’m not just going to run away afraid. I don’t want him to feel like he has to take care of me, I want it to be about something else.When this is over and he catches the guy, do I go back to just being Wes’s sister?”

“Tell him that. Because I don’t think you’ve ever beenjust Wes’s sisterto him,” Wren encourages.

I bite my lip and nod; I can do that. Talking to Tripp has become as natural as talking to these three. Like something I was simply meant to be doing.

It’s dark by the time we part ways for the night, and maybe a paranormal romance book wasn’t the best thing to discuss while the town is being haunted, in our own way. The trees dance in the increased gusts, casting shadows in frequent motion. The howling continues from earlier, too, and there’s an emptiness to the streets that only amplifies the sound.

This is Foxport, I remind myself. I’m okay. And I’m only about a block from home.

Even still, I regret not accepting my friends’ offers to drive me home. And when I turn the corner and my building comes into sight, I allow myself to exhale deeply. The first thing I’m going to do is change into my chenille lounge set, then reheat my leftover orange chicken, and put onYou’ve Got Mail. It’s sure to chase all the ghosts away.

I cross the tiled lobby of my building and climb the stairs in haste. Rounding the corner to my door, I pause a few steps from it. There’s a noticeable gash in the wood near the lock that did not exist this morning.

I approach with caution, listening for the sound of anyone inside. Testing the handle, my door is indeed unlocked.

My heart races, bile rising in my throat. This is too familiar, this fear-stricken attack to my body. I pull my phone from my coat pocket and get Tripp’s name pulled up in preparation.

Finger hovering above the call icon, I gently press on my door. It swings ajar just slightly, and I listen for any reaction that may be occurring inside. I’m greeted by silence, so I press it further. It opens enough that I can see inside my living room now and I fall against the door frame in shock.

My home is thoroughly destroyed, mirroring the turmoil at my shop. Silent tears stream down my cheeks as I take in the knocked over and broken end table, shattered lamp, and scattered books. The cushions of my couch and window seat are strewn about, as if someone was trying to disrupt anything they could get their hands on.

I look across into my kitchen to find cabinets open and drawers out across the floor. The contents of said cabinets and drawers are scattered, and I spot at least one set of broken mugs. Following a path of destruction, I pass by my bathroom that has the same array of items strewn about and stop outside my bedroom door.

With shaking hands, I turn the knob and push into what is supposed to be my sanctuary for rest and comfort. Instead, I find more damage than anywhere else in my home. My mattress has been flipped up on its side, more than likely knocking into my bedside lamp that now lays in pieces across the floor. My dresser drawers have been dumped out on the floor, a pile of garments mingled with the ceramic slivers.

My chest heaves with silent sobs as I drop to my knees beside my memento box I keep under my bed, now open and dumped across the floor as well. Running my fingers over the broken frame that holds a photograph of me with my grandparents, I finally hit ‘call’ and lift my phone to my ear.

Tears fall onto the broken glass over my grandfather’s smiling face as the first ring sounds. It only takes one more ring for him to answer.

“Hi, Sherlock.” His voice is warm, and I can picture the crinkle around his eyes from his smile. It’s enough to break me open.

A fit of sobs escapes as I try to speak. “Tripp—” I hiccup.

“Where are you?” His voice is urgent now.

“Home,” I cry. “Someone was… my apartment is?—”

“I’m on my way.” I can hear movement through the line and then the sound of a door opening and closing. It’s mere seconds before the sound of an engine roars to life. “Are you hurt? Is anyone still there? I need you to talk to me.”

“I’m not hurt, and they’re gone. I just,” a sob interrupts my words, “just got home to it like this.”

“I’m close, just hold on,” he assures me quietly, almost as if he’s assuring himself too.

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