Would he?
Turns out the answer is yes, because I don’t find any of my belongings. I don’t even find his tablet or anything of use.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, giving up on the whole thing.
Storming toward the front door, I fully intend to do what I should have done last night and just leave.
I might have lost the bike key, and the drawer housing the others might now be empty, but that won’t stop me.
I’ll walk. Hitch-hike. I don’t fucking care, as long as it gets me away from here. From him. I just wish the memories and nightmares were as easy to leave behind.
I flick the lock on the inside of the door and twist the handle. I’m suddenly able to breathe a little easier, knowing that I’m about to escape this fucking disaster, but when I pull, the door doesn’t move.
“Shit,” I hiss, turning to the biometric panel beside me.
There’s a green light, so I naïvely put my hand to it, remembering doing just that when we got back here Friday night. But unlike then, nothing happens.
Well, actually, that’s not true. The taunting green light turns red, refusing to accept my print.
“Fuuuck,” I roar, tugging on the handle in a pointless attempt to rip it off its hinges. “ARGH.”
I fall back against the door with my chest heaving and my vision blurring with frustration.
“I fucking hate you, Theo Cirillo,” I shout into the silence of the hallway.