Chapter Twenty-Two – Shadows in the Apartment
1109 Words
The lock gave way with a soft click, the kind that only trained hands could coax. Reeves slipped inside, closing the door carefully behind him. He paused, letting his ears adjust to the silence.
The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.
He drew a long breath through his nose. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant, faintly floral, like lavender air freshener that had been sprayed too recently. Cover scents. A staged room.
He moved further in, every step deliberate.
The living room was small. A beige couch sat against the wall, cushions perfectly aligned. The coffee table gleamed, reflecting the dull glow of the streetlamp outside. Too clean. Even the dust was gone, wiped away with the precision of someone trying to erase life itself.
Reeves crouched by the table, ran a gloved finger along the underside. Nothing taped. Nothing carved. He flipped through the single magazine on top. The pages stuck slightly, as though they’d been damp once. He bent closer—small fingerprints pressed into the glossy paper. Too faint to copy, but enough to prove she had been here, flipping idly, perhaps nervously.
He stood and crossed into the kitchen. Cupboards opened smoothly, stacks of plates lined in perfect order. The fridge hummed. Inside: a half-empty carton of milk, three sealed bottles of water, an apple with one bite taken from it. Reeves frowned. “That’s wrong,” he muttered. “Why leave one bite?”
He set the apple down. The trash bin was empty, liner spotless. No one lived without trash. The room had been scrubbed.
He pulled open the drawer beneath the counter. Utensils aligned like surgical instruments. Too deliberate. He checked under the sink—pipes, bleach, one spare sponge. Nothing.
He leaned against the counter, rubbing his jaw. “They cleaned you up for presentation. Wiped away the parts that mattered.”
He left the kitchen.
The desk sat near the window. Files stacked neatly, but not all were military manuals. Reeves flipped through—technical data, research protocols, all stamped with HelixCore’s insignia. Ninety percent useless jargon. He slowed on one sheet, scrawled in the margins in frantic pen: “Batch 14 – unstable aggression – terminate?”
He slipped the sheet into his pocket. His pulse quickened. Evidence.
He moved to the bookshelf. Technical journals, psychology texts, three novels tucked between them—Jane Austen, of all things. He tilted them one by one. No hollows. He ran his hand across the spines, felt for irregularity. Nothing.
On instinct, he tapped the floorboard beneath. Hollow. He crouched, pulled at the seam. A flap lifted. Inside—an envelope.
Reeves opened it quickly. Printed emails, coded subject lines, shorthand notes. “…patient response unpredictable… aggression spikes… recommended disposal after observation.”
He stuffed them into his coat. Jackpot.
The bedroom waited at the end of the hall. He stepped inside, flashlight beam slicing across the room. The bedspread was smooth, untouched. Nightstand empty except for a lamp. He pulled the drawer—lip balm, tissues, a photograph of two women, smiling at a beach. The coroner had been right. She had hidden her truth in plain sight.
He scanned the closet—clothes aligned, shoes lined like soldiers. Too perfect. He knelt, brushed his hand along the carpet seam. Loose thread. Tug. A second hiding spot revealed nothing but a small notebook filled with fragmented equations. He skimmed, lips tightening. Chemical structures. Dosage levels.
He shoved it into his pocket.
The door clicked.
Reeves froze.
A soft squeak of hinges, footsteps entering. He moved instantly, instinct screaming alive. He slipped to the door frame, hand ready. As the figure stepped in, he lunged, grabbing the arm, twisting it. The intruder countered fast—his wrist bent back, nearly snapping.
Reeves growled, snapping into old training. He spun, hooked a leg, slammed the body into the wall. His forearm pressed at the throat.
Eyes stared back at him. Wide, furious, but familiar.
Emily.
Her breath came fast, chest heaving.
“Jesus Christ,” Reeves hissed, easing his hold. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She shoved him back, rubbing her throat. “What do you think I’m doing? Sitting at home while you chase answers? No. If you’re in this, so am I.”
He glared at her. Every nerve told him to drag her out, lock the door. But her eyes burned with defiance.
He shoved a pair of gloves into her hands. “Fine. Bedroom. Check everything. Don’t touch with bare skin.”
She tugged them on without a word.
For fifteen minutes, silence reigned. Reeves searched the living room again, crawling under the couch, prying open vent covers, checking behind picture frames. Emily in the bedroom moved drawers, flipped pillows, checked shoe boxes. They worked like strangers bound by the same mission, neither speaking, only breathing in sync.
Then—the sound.
Key in the lock.
Reeves’s head snapped up. He mouthed a curse. Heavy boots crossed the threshold. Not one pair—three.
“s**t,” he whispered.
He darted to the bedroom, grabbed Emily by the wrist. She didn’t resist as he yanked her into the closet. He pulled the door shut behind them, plunging them into dark.
The men’s voices rumbled low. “Check the kitchen.”
“Bedroom after.”
“Boss said don’t miss a thing.”
The floor creaked as they moved room to room. Drawers opened, doors slammed.
Emily’s breath quickened. The closet was too narrow—her chest pressed against his. He tried to shift, to give her space, but there was none. Her breath fanned hot against his neck, rapid, uneven.
He focused on the sounds outside. Ten minutes stretched like an eternity. Boots scraping, muffled curses, papers shifting. One man muttered, “It’s clean. Whoever was here already took what they wanted.”
Reeves’s pulse hammered. He forced stillness. Every nerve screamed to fight if they opened the closet. His hand brushed against Emily’s arm. She flinched, then stilled.
Her head tilted up in the dark. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he felt her gaze. Her hand tightened on his sleeve.
He told himself: she’s a widow, she’s raw, she’s vulnerable. Don’t—
But she pressed closer. Her body aligned with his. Her heartbeat thudded against his chest.
And then—her lips brushed his.
Soft at first. Questioning.
Shock jolted through him. His instinct screamed to pull back. But the adrenaline, the heat, the closeness—it overpowered.
Reeves kissed her back, fierce, desperate.
Outside, the men’s voices drifted further, then faded. The apartment fell into silence again.
Inside the closet, everything had shifted.
- Writer
