CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

I drove Gabriel back to his office. I’m sure there was no way in hell a few ounces of wine could legally intoxicate a guy over two hundred pounds, but it was definitely more than he was used to. Besides, I was happy for any excuse to get into the driver’s seat. I took the long way and told myself I was just making sure he was sober, windows down, fresh air rushing in. He wasn’t in any hurry, either, and we sat outside his office talking for almost an hour before I remembered he really needed his sleep. For once, he seemed relaxed enough to actually get it. So I said goodbye, grabbed the key Ricky had left behind my tire, and headed for his place.

Ricky’s apartment was in a graduate housing complex on East Hyde Park. He lived with his dad, but he wanted a place for when he had classes. Technically, being a part-time student, I suspect he shouldn’t have gotten into graduate housing at all, but I wasn’t surprised that he’d managed it. Between Ricky’s charm and persuasion and Gabriel’s lock picking and sleight of hand, if I took enough lessons, I could become a first-rate private eye. Or a master criminal.

The building was quiet. Not a lot of students around in June. The floor layout was an odd C shape, with the elevator depositing me on the far side. I had to round a corner, then another—

I stopped. Ricky’s apartment was two doors down. I could see the number. But someone was trying the doorknob. My hand went to my purse, sliding inside to where my gun rested. Even as I reacted, I chastised myself. Going for my gun because a drunk student had the wrong apartment? But my gut told me it wasn’t a drunk student, and when I caught a glimpse of his profile, I jerked back around the corner, heart pounding.

It was the guy from the motel a month ago. The guy whose attack made me flee to Cainsville. A random motel clerk obsessed with my parents. And now he was here? Breaking into Ricky’s apartment? How did that make sense?

I peeked around the corner and realized it wasn’t the same man. He had a similar build—tall and wiry—but this guy was younger, had lighter hair, and bore only a passing resemblance to my attacker. Yet I couldn’t seem to shake the association. I moved my gun into my jacket pocket before I rounded the corner.

“Can I help you?” I said.

He was taking something long and silver from his pocket. A lock pick? When I spoke, he jumped and turned, dropping the object back into his coat.

I double-checked the number on the door, confirming it was Ricky’s.

“Are you looking for someone?” I said.

He paused. “Rick Gallagher,” he said finally. “Is this his place?”

“Is he expecting you?” I asked.

“Olivia Taylor-Jones,” he said, snapping his fingers. “I knew I recognized you. So you’re coming to see Rick?”

“How do you know him?”

“Are you expecting him back soon?”

I sized him up. A reporter? From a school paper or blog? I’d been worried about that when the picture hit the Post. Ricky hadn’t. While he didn’t advertise who he was, he didn’t hide it, either. Professors and students who knew his background presumed he was trying to “break the cycle.” He didn’t disillusion them.

“You should leave now,” I said.

A brief smile. “Should I?”

I met his gaze. “Yes.”

“When do you expect Rick back?”

“Do you want to leave a name and number? I’ll tell him you dropped by.”

He held my gaze, easing closer as my fingers tightened around the gun in my pocket. “Why don’t I come inside and wait with you.”

I sputtered a laugh. That seemed to surprise him. Had he really expected me to agree? He stood there, eyes locked on mine, as if he could . . . I don’t know, hypnotize me? When I just smiled and shook my head, he looked honestly baffled.

“I think you should let me come inside with you,” he said.

“I think you should haul ass back to the elevator before I call the police.”

He blinked, finally breaking eye contact. One last look at me with that perplexed frown. Then he walked past, so close his jacket brushed me. I stood my ground.

“Shall I tell him who called?” I said.

He kept going. I waited until the elevator dinged, then I hurried to the stairwell. I zoomed down the flights and made it to the first floor just as he was walking through the front door.

I could see him outside, but the reflection of the lights against the glass made him seem to disappear as he walked. Not vanish or fade, but blend into his surroundings.

He passed a parked light gray car, and his jeans and jacket seemed to lighten to match, leaving a gray blur. Obviously a trick of the darkness and the reflection of light. As soon as he was far enough away, I opened the door to see better, but once I did, I lost track of him completely.

He must have darted between parked cars. I went out and looked around. No sign of him.

I spent another few minutes looking. I wanted to see where he would go, what he drove, maybe get a license number. But I’d waited too long before stepping outside, and now he was gone. After one last look, I retreated inside.