Page 26 of Desperate People

Not now, Lucy. Later.

If there is a later.

“I—I’m sorry to call you,” I manage, hating the tremble in my voice.

“Something’s wrong,” he says.

There’s silence. Tense, focused.

Then.

“Where are you?”

“My apartment. I just got home. Someone’s—someone’s been in here. There’s damage. He, uh, he left things.”

I whisper. I can't bring myself to say what exactly he left. Not out loud.

Not the note.

Not the rose.

Not the goddamn shit on my bed.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

His voice is still low, but something sharp slices through it now.

A blade wrapped in silk.

“No. I mean, not physically. But he, he broke my vanity. There’s glass everywhere. And he—” I choke, swallowing bile, going for broke. “He left things. A note. It said, For my Diablita.”

The line crackles.

No sound.

Just the vibrating thrum of fury pressing through the receiver.

Then—movement.

Fast. Urgent.

“Where are you now?”

“Bathroom,” I whisper.

“Okay. Good. Stay right there. I’m on my way,” Balor says.

The edge in his tone is lethal.

I hear a door slam shut in the background, the jingle of keys, the shuffle of his boots over hardwood.

“Don’t leave that bathroom, Lucy. Don’t touch anything else,” he commands. “Don’t open the door for anyone if you hear a knock. Don’t even look out the peephole.”

“Balor—” I whisper, but I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.

That I’m scared?

That I need him?

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