Page 22 of Desperate People

My vanity—an antique my mom and I thrifted and refurbished—is flipped and splintered, its mirror shattered across the carpet.

Perfume and powder and broken compacts bleed into the pile like a crime scene.

It stinks in here.

Something thick and sour and human.

I already know what I’m going to see before I turn to the bed.

But that doesn’t make it any easier.

There. In the center of the mattress, atop my white linen duvet, like some twisted offering—a pile of human excrement.

My legs go weak. My stomach claws up my throat.

I flee.

The hallway spins as I stagger to the guest bathroom, not even shutting the door before I slam to my knees and retch.

It’s violent. Hot. Acidic.

My throat burns. My eyes blur with tears.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t think.

I just want to wake up from this nightmare.

Still trembling, I reach for the sink, gripping the edge, trying to steady myself. But then something catches my eye in the mirror—just over my shoulder.

The kitchen.

The island.

Something’s there.

I freeze.

The room beyond looks untouched.

Spotless. As if none of the madness in my bedroom ever happened.

But on the counter—dead center, perfectly arranged like a sick joke—is a single red rose.

Wrapped in a satin ribbon. Balanced on a folded piece of creamy cardstock.

I know I didn’t put that there.

My building has secure access.

Doormen. Cameras.

A locked elevator that goes straight to my floor.

No one should have been able to get in here.

But someone did.

---