Claimed by the outlaw king

Someone was here

Chapter 2

Annalise's POV

I rushed toward the mess, dropping my knees to the ground. Someone had been searching through my things and my mother’s things. My hands began to shake. Someone had been inside my home. Someone had been looking for something and, judging from the appearance, they weren't looking for money. They weren't a random crew of neighborhood thieves looking for quick cash.

They were looking for Clara Grace.

I slowly lifted my eyes toward the dark hallway leading to my bedroom. For the first time in four years, I wished my mother had been still alive because suddenly, I had the terrifying feeling that whatever she had taken to her grave had finally come looking for me.

The drawer beside the television was open.

Again. I walked toward it. My legs felt strangely weak. I already knew what I’d find, but I just didn’t want to see it.

The drawer contained her old photographs, letters, birthday cards, dried flowers she’d once pressed between the pages of a book. Now they were scattered across the floor.

“No,” I said in confusion.

The envelope had been torn open. Then another, and another. Whoever had done this hadn’t simply searched the drawer. They had ripped through it. They had opened every envelope. Some of the letters were torn down the middle. Others had been crumpled and thrown aside. My throat tightened. I picked up one of the photographs. It was old.

The edges were yellowed, and there was a crease running across the middle. My mother was standing beside me.I was six or seven, maybe. I couldn’t remember the exact year. I remembered the dress, though. A yellow one with tiny white flowers.I hated that dress. I cried when she made me wear it. She’d laughed and told me I’d thank her when I was older.

I smiled.

Then the smile disappeared when I noticed that someone had stepped on the photograph. There was a muddy footprint across my mother’s face. My hands were cold. I stared at it.

This wasn’t random.

Someone hadn’t broken into my apartment looking for money. They didn’t steal my laptop nor take my jewelry. They had gone straight for my mother’s belongings.

Why?

I sat down on the floor. For several seconds, I couldn’t move. My mind searched for an explanation. Maybe someone wanted something sentimental.

Maybe—

No.

There was no innocent explanation for this. Someone had come into my home, opened my mother’s boxes, searched through her past and they were looking for something.

But what?

I reached for the wooden box I kept beneath the drawer. It was empty. My pulse stopped. I lifted the box and turned it over. Nothing. I searched the floor. Nothing. My mother’s letters were everywhere, but the one thing I always protected was gone. A small white envelope folded at the edges from years of being handled. It contained the last letter my mother had ever written to me. She gave it to me two weeks before she died. I hadn’t opened it immediately. I had been angry with her. I couldn’t even remember why anymore. Something stupid. Something that didn’t matter. She told me to read it when I was ready. I had waited. Then she died. And suddenly, I couldn’t bring myself to open it.

For four years, that letter had been inside the wooden box. The only thing I’d never allowed myself to lose. I searched beneath the sofa. Nothing. Inside the drawer. Nothing. Under the scattered photographs. Nothing. My breathing became shallow.

“No, no, no…”

I crawled across the floor, checking every piece of paper. My fingers moved faster. I opened boxes I’d forgotten existed. I searched through old cards. I checked beneath the furniture. Nothing. The letter was gone. I pressed both hands against my face. Tears rolled behind my eyes. I didn’t care about the photographs. I didn’t care about the money. I didn’t care about the broken drawer.

But that letter—

That letter was from my mother. It was the last part of her I had never touched. The last thing she had left me. And someone had taken it. A sob escaped before I could stop it. I covered my mouth. I hated crying, especially alone. Because when you cried alone, there was nobody there to tell you it was going to be okay. Nobody pulls you into their arms. Nobody to tell you that you weren’t as alone as you felt. I wiped my cheeks angrily.

“Think.”

I forced myself to breathe.

Think.

Who knew about my mother’s things? Nobody. At least, nobody who should have cared. My friends knew my mother was dead. They knew I had a few boxes of her belongings, but they didn’t know about the letter. They didn’t know where I kept it, and they certainly had no reason to come into my apartment. I looked around the room.

Suddenly, everything familiar felt threatening. The windows, the hallway, the bedroom door. Every shadow seemed deeper than it had been before. I stood slowly. I needed to call the police. The thought made my stomach twist. I reached for my phone. Then stopped. What exactly was I going to tell them? Someone entered my apartment and looked through my dead mother’s belongings. Nothing valuable was stolen. I didn’t know who did it. I didn’t know what they wanted. I stared at the emergency number on my screen. My thumb hovered over it.

Then I heard something. A sound from the hallway.

I froze.

It came again. A soft scrape. Like a shoe against the floor outside my apartment. Someone was outside. I moved toward the door without thinking. Then I stopped myself.

No.

That was stupid.

If someone had broken in once, there was no reason to assume they wouldn’t do it again. I stepped backward. My phone was still in my hand. I considered calling the police. I should have. I knew I should have. But before I could press the button, I heard footsteps. Slow and coming closer. My entire body went rigid. They stopped outside my door. I couldn’t breathe. For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then

A sound.

My eyes widened. A key slid into the lock. I stared at the door. My mind refused to understand what I was hearing. Another twist. The handle moved. Someone had a key to my apartment. And whoever was standing on the other side wasn’t trying to break in.

They were letting themselves in.