Page 69 of Hunt Me

Pulling into a parking space, I do a quick check to see if I can sense anyone watching. I’ve spent most of my life hypervigilant, so I tend to notice when things feel off, but apart from a murder of annoying crows who won’t stop squawking, Denver’s building seems peaceful.

The door is also locked, exactly the way we left it. It’s not enough to get me to drop my guard, but I don’t think anyone’s been back here. The way Denver’s place was trashed was to send a message, to convey a threat.

He’s not safe there. He’s not safe at work.

He’s not safe anywhere.

But I don’t think whoever is behind this intended to stick around until one of us got back. Which is a shame, honestly. If they were here, I could take care of the problem now, bury the body, and then I could get back to fucking my little rabbit into oblivion without fear of leaving him on his own afterward.

Tapping my fingers on the side of my jeans, I walk around the living room, peering into little storage cubbies and looking under the couch, but I don’t see any collection of files anywhere.

The same goes for the guest bedroom, and I eventually end up scouring the closet in Denver’s room. In spite of the mess, I can see it’s very much him. There’s lace and leather, heels and running shoes, jeans and T-shirts, and formfitting dresses with sequins that are uncomfortable to the touch but gorgeous to look at when I turn them left to right in a ray of sun coming through the window.

It makes me want to watch him onstage again.

The first time I saw him, I was captivated. He moved like flowing water, danced like he was born to do it. His fingers areso graceful with his signs. He carries feminine energy when he’s in drag, which morphs into this soft, caring tenderness when he’s not. It’s something I’m not used to, but I want to be.

My life has been sharp edges and the iron tang of blood, and I don’t hate it, but it’s never felt like any of it was my choice. I obeyed orders because it was easy. I made cuts because I didn’t care about who was feeling pain.

I let myself stand in the line of fire to protect my brothers because that’s what love always meant for me.

I don’t know that I’m in love now, but whatever this feeling I have for Denver is different. It’s filled with a need for self-preservation because I know that if I got hurt, he would hurt.

And I can’t have that.

I take a breath and carefully lay all of his dresses on the bed, piling the rest of his clothes beside them. I line his shoes up against the wall, ordered by color and by size, then by shape. They’re so…pretty.

Just like him.

When that’s done, the closet is mostly empty save for a handful of shoeboxes that are littered all over the closet floor. They don’t look like they belong there, so I pick them up, and when I reach a pair with some designer logo on them, I hear something rattling around.

The side of the box is torn, and the lid looks like it was thrown on there haphazardly. To an untrained eye, that would look like nothing. To someone like me, I understand it. They left just enough damage to pique someone’s curiosity. They want someone to open this box.

At the bottom are several sheets of paper stapled together and a mug shot.

It’s an arrest record, along with what looks like the first affidavit that was filed. Denver Voss vs Byron Lindon.

Byron Lindon. The stalker. The man who first tormented Denver, and a man I would like to make pay—even if all of this isn’t him.

Dropping to the floor, I take photos of everything, then send them to Percy before tapping his name on the screen and pressing the phone to my ear. I hate the sound it makes when it rings. It makes my skin feel too tight, but he doesn’t let it go on for long.

“You good?”

“Not in danger,” I tell him. “I texted you some photos that I found. Denver’s first stalker.”

“I’ll make a call. Matias should have all the info I need.”

I breathe a little easier. “Is he awake?”

“No,” Percy says. “I checked on him about ten minutes ago.”

That makes me feel better. I want him to heal. I want to be able to touch him again, to take him again, to make him writhe in pleasure. And if there’s pain, I want it to be the kind of pain he’s begging for.

“I’m going to be home soon.”

“Alright.” Percy hesitates, then says, “Depending on what we find, I think I need to call Dad.”

I groan. My father and I have a complicated relationship. He appreciates my work ethic and what I’m capable of, but he also doesn’t understand me. And he’s never tried. He signs, but only after Nico convinced him to learn. Sometimes it feels like Nico is the uncomplicated son he’s always wanted.