Azeelia Cole
The hallway smelled like rain and ozone. I reached my floor, carrying a carton of lukewarm takeout, my heels clicking tiredly against the peeling linoleum. All I wanted was to wash off the scent of expensive bourbon and lock myself away from Gabriel Marchetti's piercing eyes.
Then I stopped dead in my tracks.
My apartment door was unlatched. A dark sliver of space showed between the wooden frame and the deadbolt, the brass plate around the lock splintered and gouged by a crowbar.
My breath trapped in my throat. I stood frozen for three agonizing seconds, listening. The hallway was dead quiet except for the hum of the flickering fluorescent bulb overhead.
I pushed the door open with the tip of my shoe.
"Hello?" I called out softly.
Silence answered.
I stepped inside and
