Page 37 of Say Yes to the Death

“It’s on the bed.”

He walked toward the bedroom, boots thumping heavily on her wooden floors. He pulled a pair of gloves from the utility belt he wore. A moment later, he reappeared with the letter and envelope in hand.

“Jesus. Do you still have Detective Smith’s phone number?”

“In my wallet,” Claire said, pointing with a shaky finger to a hook by the front door. She hadn’t bothered to take it out of her backpack.

Sawyer pulled out a bottle of water, bag of dog treats, travel umbrella, emergency thermal sleeping bag, and a plastic pouch with twelve pens in different colors before successfully finding her wallet. He fished Detective Smith’s card out and dialed, quickly relaying the information. Then he made sure the door was bolted tight before coming to sit with Claire again.

“The apartment’s clear. Detective Smith is on his way. Are you feeling any better? And what the hell happened to your arm?” he asked, spotting the ugly beige scarf that was now largely saturated with blood.

“I may have impaled myself while checking the apartment for intruders.”

He shook his head. “Self-defense class. This week. No arguments. Do you have a first aid kit?”

“It’s at Luke’s,” Claire said, marveling at how wildly unprepared she was. How unlike her. Barney had really messed with her equilibrium. “It’s fine.” She gestured weakly with her bloody arm.

“I think I have one in my car. Let me just?—”

“Stay. Please,” she said, heart rate escalating at the thought of being in the apartment alone.

“Okay. Why don’t we at least wash the wound and find something a little better than a scarf to dress it?” He took her hand to help her to her feet.

“I can do it.” She took her hand back and straightened her shoulders, standing tall as she walked to the sink. She didn’t need a man to tend her wounds. She was a grown-ass woman. A grown-ass woman who had just dissolved into a panic attack and who may have been targeted by someone yet again, but a woman nonetheless.

In a refreshing change of pace, Sawyer didn’t follow her and micromanage every aspect of her wound care. Luke flat-out refused to let Claire dress her stab wound. Or at least he had before she decided she wasn’t speaking to him.

Sawyer tapped at her security system as she flicked on the light above her sink. Blood swirled down her drain as she rinsed her arm. When the dish soap made contact with the cut, she flinched.

Sawyer swore, and her eyes snapped up.

“What?” she asked, wrapping a layer of paper towels around her arm. She shoved her hand into an oven mitt to keep them in place. Close enough.

“I’m not sure if you want to see this,” he said, standing in front of the touchscreen mounted on the wall.

“Show me.” She crossed her arms over her chest. Enough with men trying to protect her feelings.

He stepped away from the screen. Footage rolled of the empty hallway outside her front door. The alarm blared in the background as a figure dressed all in black approached, darting its head from side to side repeatedly before it came to a stop in front of the door. The figure was tall and lanky but had broad shoulders and a visible Adam’s apple. A black ski mask covered all but the person’s eyes, which were so dark that they appeared black. The doorknob rattled, and the figure disappeared from the screen as he entered her apartment. The video captured the man leaving a few minutes later.

Claire backed away from the screen, gripping the countertop to keep herself steady. A stranger had been in her apartment. Again. The four walls that were supposed to be home suddenly felt like a prison.

“Couldn’t he have at least worn a less stereotypical outfit to break into my apartment? He looks like a cat burglar from the 80s,” she joked in spite of the lump that was lodged in her throat.

“Here,” Sawyer said, laying her cell phone on the countertop. “Thought you might want this. I texted Luke from my phone and let him know what was going on.”

She groaned and turned away.

“Should I not have done that?”

“We’re not in the best place at the moment,” she said,

“I’m sorry to hear that. Do you want to talk about?—”

He was cut off by a sharp knock at the door. “West Haven Police Department,” Detective Smith announced.

Claire crossed to her front door and unbolted it, peeking through the crack before removing the chain.

Detective Smith asked what felt like a million questions, especially about the bloody sword on Claire’s countertop. He was accompanied by two other cops, one of whom was kneeling at her front door, dusting for fingerprints. At their request, Rosie had been barricaded in the bathroom because she kept rolling over next to them, demanding belly rubs.

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