But this will not help me get any closer to him. Because I recognize the object from the drawer immediately, and it doesn’t belong to him. It belongs to Taj. I turn it over in my hand, puzzled. His cuff link. I’ve seen it countless times, sitting with its mate on the dresser or on my nightstand. What’s it doing here? Did Christian steal it? To what end?
I return it where I found it before, slamming the drawer shut. Lifting my gaze, I meet my own eyes in the mirror. This is one of those moments when everything hinges on a single decision. I can either pretend I never found the cuff link, or I can do a little more exploring if only to understand why Christian had it. Who is he? Does he have a habit of stealing things? I should know that if we’re going to continue living together, right? The way Kyla deserved to know about the stalker.
That’s what decides for me, what sets me in motion. The thing is, this apartment is almost comically clutter-free. No stuffed desk drawers, no mail left lying around. Still, there are places I haven’t dared look through for fear of losing Christian’s trust.
Starting with the nightstand in the bedroom. I know there are papers in there—I’ve heard them shift around while he’s had the drawers open. With tomorrow’s weather forecast echoing in my ears, I walk to the bedroom, my heart now fluttering like a hummingbird’s. I’m not going to find anything wrong. I’m not going to find anything wrong.
On top of the pile is a lease agreement. The lease for this apartment. I pick it up, prepared to set it aside in favor of something more telling… except the date on the front page stops me short.
“A few weeks ago?” I whisper, staring at the date.
He didn’t say anything about having only moved in a little while ago. He hasn’t even lived here as long as we’ve known each other. It’s not a lie, per se, but he hasn’t been completely forthcoming with the truth. Is this a bad sign?
The last page is the signature page. Do you know his last name? Kyla’s question bounces around the inside of my skull as I flip to the back. I’ll know it soon enough. I can’t wait to rub it in her face if I ever speak to her again.
There it is, written in black ink. Christian Russo.
Russo. Russo? Why does that name feel familiar? It’s not unique, really, but there’s something about it that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand straight up while goose bumps rise over my arms.
The name isn’t the only thing that leaves me reacting that way. If it was, this might all be easily explained away. It’s the handwriting that leaves me staring at the page, unblinking. Willing what I think I see before me to be an illusion.
I know that handwriting. I’ve seen it so many times, haven’t I?
Now nothing could stop me from pulling documents from the drawer, flipping through them, my brain recoiling from what’s right in front of it. It’s the same handwriting on his car lease. The same on a sheet of legal paper that looks like he was writing out a list of things—only it’s in Italian.
Italian.
“No. Oh, my God, no.” But it’s right here in front of me, along with a name I remember hearing Cynthia mention more than once. Russo. The Russo name was big back in Italy. I always had the sense of there being bad blood. I even suspected more than once that she blamed them for my parents’ deaths.
But that can’t be right. Christian didn’t know anything about my family or my past. And if he was one of them, Cynthia would’ve recognized him right away.
What if she did? What if he—
“No.” My voice doubles and triples on itself, echoing through the room. It’s not possible. I won’t believe it, even if the pieces are finally coming together and everything’s making sense. We visited Cynthia, and now Cynthia’s missing. He didn’t seem very concerned, did he? No, he was quick to tell me he’s the only family I need.
My stalker left a note the day I moved. How convenient. How perfectly timed, reminding me why it was a good thing to move out. It was his idea, wasn’t it? When I called him after—
My stomach lurches, and I flee the bedroom, launching myself down the hall and into the bathroom once again. This time, I fall to my knees in front of the toilet and retch up everything left inside me. I can’t help but remember that night, throwing up in the sink. How I clawed at my attacker’s legs when he forced me to… and the scars under my fingers, scars Christian has on his legs…