The Poet is going to find me no matter what I do.
Two Nights Earlier
I was shaking all over as I eyed Officer Johnson’s gun in his holster and mentally reminded myself to buy a gun when the sun came up.
Standing at my front door, he was inspecting the locks. “Are you sure you locked it?” he asked, the frown on his face telling me he was beginning to think I’d made the whole thing up.
I stared at him. “Of course, I am. I locked it and fixed the chain. I’m telling you, officer, he’s been inside my apartment, and he took this photo.”
I shoved my cell in front of his face again so he could see the picture The Poet had sent to me. But Officer Johnson didn’t bother looking. He was too busy studying my face. Either he was trying to work out if I was lying, or he was wondering if I was rowing with only one oar in the water. This was the second time he’d been to my apartment in two months, and he was giving me the impression I was wasting his time. Young and perhaps a little green, I’d met him a few months earlier at Remy’s Rum Shack, one of the popular bars near the college. He’d offered to buy me a drink, but I had turned him down because I was there with friends and wasn’t in the mood for company. To say it was awkward when he turned up at my apartment a few weeks later on official business was keeping it obvious. He’d been the one I’d spoken to about the two Polaroids pinned to my door.
When he finally looked at the photograph, his frown lifted. “He sent this to you?”
Before I could answer, the door across the hallway opened and Eamon, my creepy neighbor, appeared in the doorway. Wearing a plaid robe over pajamas buttoned up to his neck, at first, he didn’t say anything, he just stared at us with his usual vacant expression. He was strange and aloof, but every time we crossed paths, I made an effort to say hello and be friendly. Not that it made a difference because he’d never said a single word to me.
“What’s the problem, officer?” he asked.
Harrumph. Well, there you go.
Officer Johnson crossed the hallway. “You live here?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been home all night?”
“Yes.”
Eamon was as rigid as flagpole. His back straight, arms fixed to his side, his face expressionless, and his eyes black and cold.
“You see or hear anything unusual tonight?”
“No.” His emotionless eyes moved to me. “Why?”
“Miss Vale here thinks someone has been inside her apartment. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“No.”
“Didn’t see anyone out of place going in or out of the apartment?”
“She has a lot of visitors.”
“I see.” Officer Johnson’s tone was heavy with judgment, so was the glance he threw my way before he turned back to my neighbor. “You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”
With the quiet click of his door, Eamon was gone, leaving Officer Johnson and his abundance of judginess standing in the hallway. I could feel his assumptions about me cross the floor with him.
“I’m going to be straight with you, Miss Vale. There ain’t a lot we can do in these situations. I’ll write up an official report, but it’ll be up to you to make sure you keep your doors locked.” He gave me a condescending smile. “Double check, even triple check if you need to.”
It was clear he thought I was making this all up.
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”
“Unfortunately, we don’t have a lot to go on. Until this person actually—”
“Murders me?”
He blinked a few times with annoyance before continuing, “Shows his face, there is very little we can do.”
I folded my arms across my chest to protect me from his lack of interest in doing his job. Serve and protect, my ass.
“What about the messages he sent to my cell? Can’t you trace them somehow?”
He gave me a look that told me it was hardly worth the effort.
“Most likely a burner phone.”
“So that’s it?”
He studied me for a moment. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, for an unempathetic douchebag—blond, strong jaw, full lips—but there was a harshness about him. Something dark. As I looked into his hard blue eyes, the familiar tingle of anxiety started at the base of my spine.
“You been in Nashville long? You got friends you can stay with?” he asked.
“How do you know I’m not from here?”
“That accent of yours. What is it, eastern Tennessee?”
“Flintlock, Cooke County.”
“You don’t say. You and me we were practically neighbors. I was born and raised in Johnson City.” A hint of a self-deprecating smile tugged at his lips. “Look, perhaps I could swing by after work to check on you. Make sure your place is secure. Maybe go grab a bite to eat together. I could be someone to confide in. It might be nice having me around. People see you spending time with a police officer might be less inclined to pester you with Polaroids and whatnot.”