ADELINE

"Wait here; I will get something real quick," I tell Greyson as I get out of the car. We arrived at The Capital an hour ago, but instead of dropping him off and going back to my hotel, I decided I was going to pick up a few things from my apartment building in the far north of Washington.

Yes, my apartment is very far from all the governmental institutions that tend to be focused in central Washington. Yes, I wasn't in the right mind when I decided I would live here, but I inherited this place from my grandma. No, I never met my grandma, but I heard she had an apartment here, and now I am using it. Hence, most of the residents in the building are old people.

I walk through the metal gate and up the stairs to the fourth floor. The elevator has been broken since 2007. Not because of a lack of funds or anything, but according to Samantha, my next-door neighbor, that elevator was only used by suicidal teens and newcomers.

Either way, no one liked that gravity-defying metal box. I unlock the door to my apartment and walk into the familiar scent of home and...

Well, dust. Eff, what is that smell? I wave my hand in front of my nose in an attempt to chase the smell away as I head down the small corridor and into the living room. I opened the window and let the cold winter breeze in.

My eyes found my car parked outside, and I remember leaving ledger waiting. I better hurry up. I head to my bedroom, where my desk is. Once I step into the room, my eyes land on the round mirror with the golden frame.

What in the world?

My entire being goes still as my brain registers the sight in front of me. I turn my head ever so slowly to check if the room is empty. The dusty floor and stuffiness of the room make it seem like no one has been here for weeks, which is true, but what I just saw says otherwise.

I carefully step closer, my shoes leaving prints on the dusty floor. I reach to touch the red words written on my mirror. "See what happens if you go on."

A threat. A clear threat. I wipe off a bit of the dripping red liquid and spread it on the back of my hand. Could this be blood? Human blood? Animal blood? Paint? It is not dry. It is fresh. Why is it fresh? How is it fresh?

A shiver runs down my spine, and I can feel my heart sink. All alarms go off in my head. Blood only requires 30 minutes to dry on non-porous surfaces. This is not dry. This is not dry.

My lungs stop working along with my heart as I turn around. My eyes dart around the room. The couch and the wardrobe touch the wall. No one can hide behind them. The window is shut from the inside. No one can get in or get out of there.

Dust covers all surfaces; there is no way someone was here less than an hour ago and left no prints. Something is completely wrong. logically, humanly, and scientifically wrong.

What if they are still here? I reach under my bed and take out a wooden box. The box is plain, but it is hard to open without a key. Just like how my password is four zeros, the key to my most dangerous possession is hanging in my keychain alongside all my other keys.

One would think I am too stupid for a detective, but that is the entire point. People won't imagine how simple I could be, especially a thief. They would suggest harder options and complicated hiding spots first before they considered the classics, like my password.

The fact that Greyson found it out right away is evidence of how pathetic he thinks I am. I unlock the box and take out the gun. I never imagined myself holding such a weapon, but it was an essential part of my training.

I stand up and exit the room after checking if the gun was loaded. I turn a corner at the end of the corridor and peek into the kitchen.

Okay, okay, okay. What is my plan? No one can help me, even if I scream. They can call the police, but I would be dead by then. What is my plan? What is my plan? My brain goes rigid when I hear something touch the kitchen window.

Shit. Shit. Shit. I can still run. I can run. I can get Greyson. But between the cold sheet of sweat on my body and the gun in my hand, all I could do was step inside the kitchen.

On the kitchen counter, by the microwave, is a catalog envelope. If someone was hiding here, or if someone wanted me dead at this particular encounter, they wouldn't have left me a message. Let alone an envelope.

Leaving signs of one's presence is to invoke fear, panic, and preferably cowardice. There is no one in this house other than me. Or maybe there is, and I am overthinking this.

Logic wins the argument, and I officially adopt the idea that I am under no immediate threat. Still, it takes me a few more rounds around the house to finally return to the kitchen and pick up the open-end envelope.

I pull out printed pictures. Four photos of me and Greyson in Michigan. One of us under the tree by the Senate building. One of us at the cafe. One of me and Rosalyn. And the fourth one...

Shit. The fourth one is me and Ledger cuddling up together on the bed. Me in a green hoodie with my head on his chest. Him in his turtleneck with his arms around me. This is our first night in the hotel.

The worst part is that the picture was taken from outside. On the balcony. The balcony door is obviously shut from the inside. There is no way someone climbed up to the third-floor balcony. He must have had a partner who had the key to the room and unlocked the balcony for him. Then lock him out to take the picture. Just then, he lets him back in, and they leave.

You might wonder why anyone would bother this much for a picture. This is called Cycle Fear. They give you something to think about, something to question. Something to pick at, only to unravel worse results.

They want you to find the answers yourself. They shock you. Place fear in your heart, and then work the wheels of your brain in the direction they want you to go. This style is known among the Mafia and political gangs. Like the ones accused of Windsor's murder.

If it is Windsor's killers who feel threatened, then my trip to Michigan wasn't entirely a waste of time. How did they know where I lived? How did they know I would be stopping by? How did they even know what hotel Ledger and I stayed at? Or where we were at what time.

Could Greyson have said anything? He could have told them which hotel. Could have given them the key to the room. Could have told them where I would be. But he didn't know that I had met Rosalyn. I was definitely followed.

Ledger only found out we would be stopping by my house about 20 minutes before we reached the building, and he didn't call or text anyone during the 20 minutes. It is not enough for them to follow me. Maybe it is the devices around me. We cannot deny how dangerous those little spies we call phones are.

Speaking of the devil, my phone starts ringing. It is Greyson. Whoops, I forgot about that. I pick up as I shove all the photos back into the envelope and head to my room.

"Ledger?"

"Detective."

"Sorry, I know I am late."

"Late is an underestimation. I understand you miss your home, but I miss mine more."

"You are right, sorry. I will be right there."

I hang up and take out a leather bag from my wardrobe. Fill it with random books and my gun. Then take a picture of the mirror and head downstairs. I don't have time to ask the landlord for camera footage or ask Samantha for her witness account.

Later, I tell myself. I will figure all this out later. I reach the car and get in.

Placing my bag in the back seat, then clutching the wheel until my knuckles turn white. I take a deep breath.

"Are you okay?" Ledger asks. "Yeah, yeah. It is just- memories, you know." I try to explain to him what I would feel if I didn't encounter what I did. He nods in understanding, and we take off.

I considered telling him all the way to where he asked me to drop him, but I am not sure how he would take it. He won't be scared. Of course not; he probably gets threats daily. He might be worried, or worse, he might want me to let go of Michigan's case.

He never approved of it in the first place; if he takes this incident to The Chairman, I won't be able to investigate so smoothly anymore. Even my stunning red card won't help me.

So, I stay silent. I drop him off at an automobile repair shop, then drive off to my hotel. It is already getting dark, and I am losing focus. I don't even have the desire for milk today. I just want to go to sleep.