I have to get out of here before I do something idiotic. I close the door harder than I intended and get the hell out of my apartment. Besides, Idohave somewhere to be, and I don’t go off schedule. Routines and schedules exist for a reason. Ignoringthem makes my skin crawl. That’s one of my compulsions that generally doesn’t give me problems.
As a kid, I would go unhinged when the family schedule changed unexpectedly, but as an adult, I have all the control. Sometimes things don’t go as planned, and age has helped me learn to cope with that frustration, but for the most part, I can avoid disruptions with careful planning.
Danika Dobrev wasnotin my plan.
The part I’m struggling with the most is determining whether my intense need to know more about her is a justifiable result of her reappearance or the rationalization of my obsessive brain. If anyone else in the world had broken in, would I have simply called the police? Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not the type to call the cops in general, so the question isn’t particularly helpful.
What I’d rather ask myself is whyshesuggested calling the police. It doesn’t make any sense if she’s part of a rival organization, and I can’t see her being an undercover cop. I’m not a fan, but even I can admit they’re not incompetent enough to do what she’s done.
Could she be a random thief who pegged me as a mark—followed me home and planned to rob me? One who carries around a large duffel bag of crap and stares vacantly out windows after breaking in. That doesn’t add up either.
Something is off with this woman. I don’t understand people in general, but this feels like something more than an inability to read her. Something isn’t lining up, and I intend to find out the reason one way or another.
I’m not backat my place for five minutes when Sante texts to tell me he and his wife, Amelie, are on their way over. Not ideal, butI’m the one who asked him to come by, so I put my curiosity on the back burner and let my little captive stew a little longer.
I plan to deal with her as soon as Sante leaves, but I should have known things would get complicated. They always do when women are involved. The minute Danika hears our voices, she starts to make a ruckus. Of course, Amelie hears it and isn’t about to leave anything alone. Not that I intended to hide Danika from Sante. He and I have no secrets from one another. I simply had nothing to tell him yet.
Amelie demands to know why a woman in the back of my apartment is screaming. Sante looks equally curious, so I indulge them.
“I caught her breaking in this morning.”
Amelie’s eyes practically bug out of her head before she bolts for the back bedroom. She swings the door wide open, and we all take in the teary woman duct-taped to a chair. I internally cringe because I know how bad it looks.
“Tommaso Donati, what on earth have you done?” Amelie glares daggers at me.
“Me?” I shoot back at her. “She’s the one who broke into my apartment.”
“So you tied her up and left her back here?”
“I had somewhere to be.” I shrug, knowing if I tell her I went to a haircut appointment, she’ll skewer my balls and roast them at one of today’s Fourth of July barbecues. Some things are better left unsaid.
She whacks my arm. I glare at her husband because that asshole has the nerve to snicker at my abuse.
After Amelie has carefully removed the tape covering my captive’s mouth, she asks in a sickeningly sweet voice if Danika is okay. I roll my eyes only because I know Amelie can’t see me.
“I’m so sorry. This is all a big mix-up,” the little liar pleads. “I thought the apartment belonged to a friend who was out of town.”
“You steal shit from your friends when they’re away?” Sante’s suspicion gives me some hope that his new wife hasn’t muddled his brain completely. I like the woman, but everything’s changed because of her. I fucking hate change.
“I wasn’t stealing,” Danika shoots back defensively. “I just needed a place to stay.”
“Ah, so you’re a squatter, not a thief.”
“Sante,” Amelie says in warning. “You’re not even letting her explain.”
He gives her an incredulous stare, which withers to a pathetic grimace under the glare of her scrutiny. Looks like I gave him too much credit. The cretin rolls over in surrender.
“I have a photographer friend from school who used to live here. I didn’t realize he’d moved, but I knew he was on shoot in Iceland, so I was hoping to use his place while he was gone. I would have checked with him, but the shoot is remote, and he couldn’t be reached.”
I study her as she explains, trying to assess every little nuance of her speech and movements for tells. It’s a craft I’ve studied for years because it doesn’t come naturally to me. I’ve had to work very hard to learn to read people. Either she’s very good at lying or she’s telling the truth. But even if she is being honest, her answer only raises more questions.
“You don’t look homeless,” I point out. Nor does she look like someone who wouldn’t have a single friend or family member to call on for a place to stay. Why would she choose to break into someone’s home rather than stay with someone else?
“I’m not,” she replies hesitantly. “I needed to lay low for a bit.”
Sante is the first to respond, his answer mirroring my thoughts. “Lay low sounds an awful lot like hiding. Who are you running from?”
The woman’s eyes squeeze shut with frustration before reopening. “It doesn’t matter. Look, I made a mistake, and I’m really sorry, but no harm was done. Can you please just let me go?” She’s genuinely scared of whoever has her on the run, which makes me even more convinced that she’s not leaving until we get a name.
