Page 55 of The Night Shift
He cocks an eyebrow and tilts his head, like he’s not exactly opposed to the idea. I can feel my heart racing.
I really need to get the fuck out of here before I commit a crime.
“Thank you for dropping me home, Theo. There. I said it.”
His eyes are still on mine. A weight, something like static skims down my spine and he brings his face close to mine. “My pleasure.”
Anotherclick. The sound of him unlocking my door.
The temperature in the car seems to plummet and yet my skin grows hotter. A lick of heat crawls from my chest, roaming up my neck, latching on to my pulse, skirting over my jaw tocreep into the flesh of my cheeks. Irritated and angry at my body’s reaction to being close to Theo, I shove him away, freeing myself from his spell, and get out.
I enter through the front doors of my apartment building, step inside the elevator, and press eight. Light music hums through the space and I pull out my phone, unlocking it to call Cami, my hands shaking. My phone screen lights up with a text.
UNKNOWN: 18 Pierce St. Bronx, NY 10461. Come alone or else I go to the cops.
Attached below is a picture of me and Cami burying a body together.
An unsettling, antsy feeling washes over me. Like I’m in the throes of a storm. And just this once, it’s not because of the fucking creepy text. It’s something else entirely.
A stark realization.
I never told Theo where I live.
Chapter 10
Theo
Forty-five minutes later
Pierce St.Bronx,NY 10461. One of the more gritty boroughs of New York. Half the buildings are under construction and propped up by scaffolding. There’s graffiti covering everything.
Ruffling her curls, Holly pauses outside a decrepit building. One of many in a row. They all might have housed apartments once upon a time, perhaps even an office or a hospital, but not anymore. Now every window in sight is covered in iron bars and nailed-up plywood.
I steal a glance at my watch: 10:16 p.m.
I quickly turn off the light inside my Prius and zoom in on my binoculars, shifting ahead to get a better view.
For all her merits and competencies, my love sure does have an abysmal fashion sense. She’s wearing a pair of blue jeans and a short white t-shirt, the words BOYS MAKE GR8 PETS <3 sprawled across her chest. She also has a black leather jacket on (that’s new) along with a dark fanny pack wrapped around her waist.
A soft breeze picks up, sliding across her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps on the back of her neck. Another gust of windand this time she visibly shivers. A small part of me wants to throw her over my shoulder, drag her back to my car, and warm her up with my own fucking body if she’d let me. But then there’s the other part. The not-so-sensible one. The one that’s so fucking fascinated by everything this woman does. Doesn’t matter if she’s slitting someone’s throat or standing in the midst of a snowstorm wearing questionable clothing. I could watch her for hours on end and never get bored.
With her attention glued to her phone, she twirls a lock of hair between her thumb and index finger and the snow starts to fall harder. I notice her nails. They’re painted a deep shade of red.Blood-red.
A slow smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, and I imagine those nails scraping against my back and down my abs. I imagine them wrapped around my cock pumping up and down till I can’t breathe. A few scattered snowflakes fall over her shoulders, some kissing the nape of her neck, some settling on top of her head. Another breeze. A stronger one this time. It sweeps up a cascade of flurries, swirling them around her like confetti. Despite the tiny frown between her brows, she seems relaxed. At peace, even. Indifferent and so breathtakingly oblivious to the effect she has on the world around her. She finally looks up from her phone screen, allowing me to see her face clearly. Her amber eyes follow the fluttering of the snowflakes, her lips parting like she’s only now realizing that it’s even snowing. Her palm slips down her arm and she sniffles, her nose crinkling. God, she’s adorable. She dusts some snow off her shoulders. It’s nothing special, just an innocent gesture, but the hot, tight heat that kindles low in my belly is anything but.
A soft sigh leaves my mouth.
The tip of her nose is pink, probably due to the cold. Her ears too. It’s kinda cute actually. She’s still unaware of my presence, her short curls dancing in the breeze. She's lost in her ownworld. Her phone rings. I don’t hear it, but I see the brief flash of light from the screen reflect onto her face. She disconnects the call, glances both ways, and then slips inside the building. A wave of protectiveness crests in my chest. I open the message I received last night outside Holly’s apartment.
+1 (917) 555-9012: may the best man win
The message is cryptic to say the least. I have no idea if it’s a threat or a challenge of sorts, or even a prank. I've gone over my contacts (and Holly’s) a dozen times, trying to match the number to a face, but it’s been futile. I tried calling the number too, but apparently it is no longer in service. Each attempt at tracking this person down has led me to a dead end.
It also doesn’t help soothe my nerves that whoever sent me this message is probably the same person who’s been tormenting Holly. The same person who asked her to come here. They might be waiting inside for her. Hoping to attack her in this isolated building. The question is why. Why would anyone want to harm something so perfect? Who the fuck could it be? Who is sending her these texts? I reach into my dashboard and pull out the picture I borrowed from Holly’s flat last night —Happy Holly— and look up the girl standing next to her.
It takes exactly five reverse image searches for me to find out her name. Aanya Kapoor.
Twelve minutes later, I’ve found her social media.
