Page 32 of Striker
Running back down the hall, she threw one look inside the bathroom to make sure he hadn’t somehow escaped. He lay twisted over the edge of the tub, his upper body partially submerged in the water, the jolting done.
Molly quickly threw on clean joggers and a crewneck sweater, not bothering with a bra. She crept out of the bedroom and made her way down the hall again. The chair hadn’t been moved. Bile hit the back of her throat.
A man was dead in her bathroom—and it very easily could have been her lifeless body lying there. Trembles shook her shoulders as she wiggled on her runners and moved the chair away from the door.
She needed to call Atlas, but she couldn’t stay in her apartment. Nor could she go to her vehicle. Someone could be waiting for her there. Or watching the building.
She couldn’t leave.
Her fingers froze on the door handle. Sandy’s apartment. Quickly she retrieved the key from the kitchen cupboard.
Back at the front door, she eased open the wood and peeked into the hall—empty. She skirted around the corner and moved toward Sandy’s place.
The scent of fried chicken was thick in the corridor, mixing with the smell of the old, tattered carpet.
Water dripped from her wet hair, soaking her sweater. Her pants stuck to her still-wet body. She stopped at apartment 307, two doors down, and pushed the key into the lock. She didn’t even knock.
The hairs on her neck sprang to attention. Every creaking floor and loud voice made her jump.
Glancing back to make sure she hadn’t been followed, she stepped into Sandy’s apartment and locked the door.
Meow, meow
Tension cinched her throat. She wanted to call for Sandy but couldn’t yet find her voice. Bending down, she scooped up Pheonix and held the cat to her chest. The animal nuzzled under her chin, demanding more attention.
She moved further into the tidy space. “Sandy?” she called softly.
No answer.
Peering into the kitchen, she found it clean and vacant. If Sandy were home, she’d either have something delicious in the slow cooker or fresh baked goods cooling on the counters. Molly searched the apartment to confirm she was alone, then sat at the kitchen table.
Her teeth chattered and she held the kitty tightly, stroking her silky fur. She sucked in one deep breath after another until her pulse no longer beat relentlessly against her skull.
She pulled the phone from her pocket and hit the only number in it, grateful she’d charged the device. The line rang and she waited, holding her breath. For all she knew, Atlas could be on his way to find Rex, had maybe even left town again.
“Hello?” His gravelly voice strummed her heartstrings, offering comfort.
“Atlas, it’s me.”
“Mol, you okay?”
Tears burned her eyes and collected on her lashes. “N-No. I mean, yes. I mean?—”
“Honey, what is it? Are you hurt?”
“Someone was here,” she choked out, her voice a whisper.
“Where are you?” His sharp demand cut through the speaker.
“At my friend’s apartment. She’s not home.”
“Stay there. I’m coming for you now.” He barked something to people in the background, then returned to the line. “I’m staying on the phone with you.”
“Okay,” she managed.
“Where are they? How many?”
“Just one, I think. I was in the bath and?—”
