Page 15 of The Stolen Dagger
It wasn’t the best place in town, but it was mine, and after the last few years, that meant something to me.
My mind drifted back to Pearl. Maybe she was just busy, but it wasn’t like her to not answer. She always returned my calls. Even though I just spoke to her last week, I was still worried.
My worry skyrocketed when I saw my front door.
My slightlyajarfront door.
The light from the hall filtered in through the four-inch crack, revealing the darkness inside.
My heart beat rapidly, and my hands shook. I took a deepbreath and strained to listen for any noise on the other side of the door, but there was nothing.
No footsteps on the creaky hardwood floor.
No rustle of clothing like someone was moving inside.
It was silent.
Placing my car keys in between my fingers like a weapon, I retrieved the can of pepper spray I kept in my purse with my other hand. I pushed open the front door, and it banged against the wall, alerting anyone that may still be inside of my presence.
Cautiously, I entered my home but halted almost immediately inside as I took my surroundings.
My apartment was trashed.
Tears filled my eyes for the second time tonight as all of my possessions were destroyed.
The beige couch was tipped over, and the cushions were shredded. The glass coffee table Leah gave me was shattered. My bookshelf and all its contents were spread across the hardwood floor.
After taking a deep breath, I followed the trail of debris and clothes that were strewn across the walkway to my bedroom that didn’t look any better.
My mattress had slash marks in the fabric and was uplifted from the box spring. The closet door to the right was ripped off its hinges. The dresser drawers were open, and their contents discarded on the floor.
But the room was empty. Whoever did this was long gone.
I walked back through the living room to the kitchen at the back of the apartment. Like everywhere else, it was a mess. Broken plates and glass peppered the white-tiled flooring.
But in the middle of the chaos on the countertop sat a single red anemone—a symbol of death and forsaken love.
Adrian.
I set down my makeshift weapons and reached for the flower. As I admired its soft red petals, my mind wandered to the past I had tried to forget.
Adrian might have had his flaws, but in the beginning of our relationship, he was a romantic.
He would often bring me different flowers for different reasons during our relationship.
In the beginning, he would bring me Camellias that, he said, symbolized his longing. When we would fight, he would bring Hyacinths to show his forgiveness and Dahlias for his commitment.
But that had all been an act. It was all a mask he wore to hide the reality of who he really was. And just like the state of my apartment, this flower was a warning—a threat.
This was Adrian’s way of telling me he hadn’t forgotten what we were to one another.
This was his way of asserting himself in my new life.
This small flower in my hand was a symbol of what was to come.
A loud vibrating noise disrupted my thoughts, and I set down the anemone, reaching into my purse for my phone.
As the screen lit up, it buzzed again in my hand as multiple texts came in one after another.
