Page 84 of Nyx
"Always. Ready?"
I open the door with my left hand, gun lifted in my right.
The door swings open to an empty room, and I don't mean void of people. There's hardly any furniture in the living area, and besides the coffeepot on the narrow kitchen counter, I see no other proof that someone uses that area.
There's not a loaf of bread, a dish drainer on the counter beside the sink, not even a cheesy magnet clinging to the refrigerator door.
I note the black bag sitting near the door leading outside in the kitchen. It looks like a duplicate of the one near her front door. The third one she keeps is in the trunk of her car, and that was noted by the guard at the gate when she came for her interview. She's as ready to take off and vanish as she can be.
The living room holds a loveseat, a worn recliner, a small television stand, and an even smaller television. There's nothing in the space that personalizes it. There's no magazine lying on the sofa waiting to be read, no pictures on the wall. If it weren't for the darker colored carpet, I'd consider the place almost sterile.
I don't move until I hear her deadbolt click into place.
I walk through the tiny apartment, opening the door to the tucked-away washer and dryer closet before moving down the short hallway. The bathroom is empty, the shower curtain pulled back, and I know she does this so she can glance inside without worrying that someone is waiting behind it.
The only other room in the apartment is the bedroom, and it's as sparsely furnished as the living room. She has a bed, a simple bedside table, also devoid of any personal belongings, and a small closet with hanging clothes and a small plastic bin half full of clothes.
Every curtain in the apartment is cut just below the windowsill, making it impossible for anyone to hide.
Her diligence isn't just about getting to and from places safely. It's written all over her personal space as well.
I don't know if she does these things to calm the fear or if they're done solely out of that same fear. Either way, it has to be an exhausting way to live.
I holster my gun before walking out of her bedroom, spending no more time than required to make sure it's clear.
"You're good," I tell her as I walk back into the living room to find her standing with her hand on the lock as if she were preparing for a quick escape.
"You'll be in the parking lot?" she asks as I inch closer, stepping to the side so I can open the door. "Right outside. You're safe."
"Thank you," she whispers, closing the door behind me before I can respond.
I hesitate to walk away, but the last thing I want is for her to look out the peephole and see a big guy standing there.
The way this apartment is set up, the narrow entryway can only be accessed at one point. Her apartment door is tucked under a set of stairs leading to the second floor. She has a door across from hers and two apartments above hers.
It's the best situation to ensure her safety with only one person on guard.
I walk back to my bike and call Max, relaying the information she provided about her playlist and phone, then settle in to keep the promise I made to her.
Chapter 22
Juliet
I paced for hours last night after he left, hoping he kept his word about staying outside all night, but still too scared to open my curtains to verify.
I don't think I slept more than twenty minutes at a time, getting less than three hours total. I'm miserable, blaming Graham, and not feeling the least bit bad about it.
He's the only one who would even consider adding that old Bryan Adams song to my playlist.
It feels like a warning.
"Everything I do... I do it for you."
Every fight, raised voice, and broken item was blamed on me. If I hadn't done this or that, then he wouldn't have had to respond the way he did.
There was a lot of my own journey spoken in the words of the women at Juniper House the other day.
I know every survivor's story is unique, but abusers seem to follow much of the same path, as if there's a book written for them detailing how to gain and maintain control of their partners.
