I knock once, a heavy thump resounding against the hollow-core door. The silence that follows is long and unsettling. For several breathless seconds, I scan the overgrown shrubs and the peeling paint of the house's exterior. A strange unease crawls up my throat like a vine clinging to the porch wall, thick and invasive. It's late, and it's unlike Ptolemy to leave me waiting.

I swallow hard and knock again—three sharp thumps. A rustling noise near my feet startles me, and I jump back, legs scrambling. A rat disappears into the underbrush, but something still feels wrong. I frown, my eyes drifting to the dark windows. Is anyone even home?

Dread churns in my stomach, a familiar fear hammering at the back of my skull. I step back, surveying the poorly lit yard, when something catches my eye—a window, cracked open around the side of the house. I hesitate, my feet moving toward it before I can think better of it. The window is slightly ajar, just enough to be suspicious.

The bottom panel is open about a hand's width, as if someone left it that way in a hurry. The reflection of the moon and stars obscures what lies beyond the glass. My breath quickens as I imagine what might be inside. Images flash through my head—dark, violent, gory things—but I shove them aside. There's only one way to know for sure.

I climb onto the ledge and lift the window higher. It groans in protest before finally giving way. Before I even lower myself inside, I can see the place is a wreck. My heart races—Am I putting my fingerprints on a crime scene? Or worse, is Ptolemy still inside, needing my help?

"Ptolemy?" I hiss into the darkness, shining my phone's flashlight around before hopping down. I dust myself off, trying to steady my nerves. "Are you in here?"

The light cuts through the dark, revealing chaos. Furniture is flipped over, torn open like someone was searching for something. Drawers hang from the kitchen cabinets, their contents scattered across the floor. Broken glass and ceramic shards crunch underfoot as I step forward. I inhale sharply, and the floating debris—cotton stuffing from ripped cushions—fills my throat, making me cough violently.

I double over, the fit wracking my body, leaving a hollow sense of dread deep in my core. When I straighten, I find myself facing the peeling wallpaper of the hallway. Slowly, I raise my phone's light, blinking at the sight before me.

Something is pinned to the wall—a note, hastily written, nailed at eye level. A hammer lies abandoned at my feet, beside a crack in the hardwood floor.

The note reads:

Dearest Romilly Quester,

If you call the police, we will know, and we will kill you and your boyfriend.

Ptolemy owes us a lot of money. If you're going to come looking for him, bring what he owes: $50,000. No more, no less.

Don't come without the money. If you're interested in contacting us, call Ptolemy's cell. We're charging it up right now.

Love, Grunge

I knew Ptolemy was in some kind of trouble, but not this. My chest tightens. There's no way I can get that much money, let alone hand it over to someone calling themselves "Grunge." I step forward and rip the note from the wall. Behind it is a garish, blue spray-painted smiley face. The nail that held the note now pierces the face's forehead—a sickening, mocking touch.

My hands tremble as I look down at the paper. My name is there, written as if it's a guarantee. There's no denying it now—I'm involved. I fold the note and shove it into my pocket, the paper crinkling under my fingers as my mind races.

I'm going to be sick.

Staggering back into the living room, I struggle to steady myself, my feet slipping on the scattered debris. I catch myself on the edge of the couch, my breath coming in shallow gasps. Dust stings my eyes, and I blink furiously, trying to clear my vision. My hands fumble for my phone as I make my way toward the kitchen.

The place is trashed, but one thing stands out—the only item left untouched. A white mug, placed neatly beside the rusting faucet. I pick it up, turning it over in my hands. It doesn't belong to Ptolemy. It smells like black coffee—something Ptolemy never drinks. I glance at the half-full coffee pot on the counter.

Then I see it—a smudge of red lipstick on the rim. I rub my thumb across it, the color sticking to my skin. My stomach churns again. The lipstick looks... familiar. Too familiar. I try to place it, but the thought slips away.

A vibration jolts me out of my thoughts, my phone buzzing with a text. It falls into the sink with a crash and I grimace as I lose my only light. My hands shake as I grab it from the sink, wiping off the water droplets. It's from my roommate.

Hey, you're out late, Romi. Coming back tonight or staying out?

I stare at the screen, then pull out the crumpled note in my pocket. Part of me wants to call the police, to let them handle this nightmare. But the threat in the note echoes in my mind. We will know, and we will kill you and your boyfriend.

I take a deep breath and type a response.

Sorry, Felicity. I'll be home in a little bit.

Okay, no rush. Just checking on you.

I exhale and stuff my phone back into my pocket. My eyes flick around the room one last time before I move toward the window, ready to leave this place behind.

"Where are you going, Romilly?"