Page 9 of Crowe
It was a classic muscle car. I had no idea what kind. Cars weren’t exactly my thing. All I knew was it was big, with a shiny black paint job and glistening chrome trim. It was beautiful but tough. Kind of like Jackson himself.
“This is… your car?” I asked, staring.
He glanced at it, then at me. “Problem?”
I shook my head, a laugh slipping out before I could stop it. “No. Just… of course it is.”
I slid into the passenger seat and shut the door, the solid thunk grounding in a way I hadn’t expected.
Crowe started the engine, and it came to life with a low, hungry rumble.
Yeah. Of course this was what he drove.
The drive to my apartment seemed to take forever. Every red light stretched too long. Every car behind us felt closer than it should’ve been. I kept replaying Wolfe’s words in my head, turning them over like a scab I couldn’t leave alone.
He’d said the search was more invasive. More persistent. That didn’t sound good.
I rubbed my hands against my jeans and forced myself to breathe. I’d been free for six months. Six months of therapy. Six months of rebuilding a routine. Six months of convincing myself that what happened to me was over.
And now this.
Crowe pulled into the small lot behind my building and cut the engine. “We’ll be quick,” he said as we walked to the front door of my building. “Grab what you need. We don’t want to hang around any longer than necessary.”
I nodded, opened the main door, and walked in. I climbed the stairs, Crowe half a step behind me, his presence solid anddeliberate. He didn’t crowd me, didn’t rush me, but I was aware of him every second.
When we reached my door, something cold slid down my spine. It was open. Not wide. Just a few inches.
“I locked it,” I said immediately. “I always lock it. I check it twice. Sometimes three times. I’m always careful.” The words came out sharp, defensive, like I expected him to doubt me.
He didn’t. His hand lifted, palm out, stopping me without touching me. His eyes tracked the door, the frame, the shadows inside. “I believe you.”
Relief hit hard and fast, followed by fear that clawed its way up my throat. Someone had been in my apartment.
My stomach twisted. “Someone’s been in there.”
“Yeah,” he said evenly. “And that’s exactly why we won’t hang around. Let me make sure no one’s inside, and then you can grab essentials only. Be quick, and let’s not waste any time.”
I stood there in the hallway and waited for him to come back. It didn’t take him long.
“Okay, it’s all clear. Let’s get packed up and get on the road.”
I looked around. The apartment looked… the same. But not. Nothing was overturned. No drawers were dumped out. Noobvious signs of a struggle, but what had been a safe space suddenly felt wrong somehow.
Crowe’s gaze flicked over everything, cataloging. “You don’t have much stuff.”
“I never really unpacked,” I said. “Didn’t see the point.”
He glanced at me then, something thoughtful passing over his face. “Feels like you were already planning to leave.”
I shrugged and crossed to the bedroom, my movements stiff. “I told myself it was temporary. Just somewhere to sleep. Somewhere… safe.” A wry chuckle escaped. “Obviously, that was an illusion.”
The bedroom was the same. A bed. A dresser. A closet with clothes arranged carefully but without personality. No pictures. No extra blankets. Nothing that said home.
I grabbed a duffel from the closet and started shoving clothes into it without much thought. Shirts. Jeans. Socks. Enough to last a few days. My hands shook, and I hated that they did.
“What do you think them breaking in here was about?”
Jackson shrugged. “Maybe they were looking for you. It’s a Saturday, so maybe they didn’t expect you to be at work. Maybe they just wanted to see how easy it would be to get in. Doesn’t much matter. We won’t be here when they come back.”
