Page 88 of Brazen Criminals

A shiver of fear grips my heart. What if the guys saw Trips hauled in and ran?

Nope. Not going there. They wouldn’t leave without telling me, without inviting me.But, the voice in my head whispers,you’ve only known these guys for a month. Who are you to them? You’re nothing but their goody-two-shoes roommate, not a member of their team.

Shaking the voice out of my head, I knock on each of their doors, trying each knob. None of the doors open. I call their names, my mouth next to the handles, fearful of making too much noise, pressing my ear against each of their doors in turn. Silence.

I check the bathroom, and with a mixture of dread and curiosity, I climb the stairs to the attic. Cracking the door open, I find a finished space, solid oak tables and a bar set up to one side. It smells classy, like money and expensive stale cologne, but despite the ambiance, the hollowness of the space tells me no one is here.

Frustrated with myself, I yank my phone out of my purse. I just need to call one of the guys. I’m being ridiculous.

Who should I call? Walker? RJ? Jansen?

An electric snap of lightning rips through the sky outside the tiny attic window, close enough to make my skin tingle. The whole house shakes, thunder rattling through the old wood building.

My heart stops completely.

Forever passes before my heartbeat returns, thumping once to tell me I’m still alive. I sigh, the relief causing my phone to slip from my hand, a white-blue flash of lightning glinting off the screen as it cartwheels down the steps—one, two, three—hitting the second floor and sliding down the hall out of sight.

I sprint down the stairs with the thunder growling, chasing me through the hallway as I dive for my phone.

It’s broken.

I try to power it on, but I can see green electrical plates and shiny globs of metal through the shattered glass. Nothing happens—it’s completely busted.

It’s full dark in the hallway now, the storm having stolen the last of the afternoon sun. I glance out the window, but I’m unable to see anything through the rain hissing against the panes. I cradle my broken phone against my chest, suddenly, excruciatingly, alone.

Trips’ phone is still in my purse, and though I can’t log in, I feel marginally better with the rectangle of light in my hand. I head back down the stairs, my phone pressed against my pounding heart while Trips’ phone lights my way.

I should turn on a light, but something is stopping me, and I can’t tell if it’s a reasonable fear or an absurd one.

When I reach the kitchen, I set my broken phone on the counter, tapping a beat on the tile as I try to calm down. Another roar of thunder shudders through the house, the storm well and truly broken.

I rub my hands against my thighs, anxious and unsure.

Bang, bang, bang.

The sound of a fist at the front door is barely audible over the roar of the storm. I step into the hallway, uncertain if I should open the door or not.

Bang, bang, bang.

I take two steps closer, only to hear, “Clara! Clara, open up!”

With the storm, it’s hard to tell who it is, but I can tell that it’s not one of my guys. They’d never pound on the door like that, not now, not like Bryce. I back away, terrified of opening the door. What if it’s Bryce? What if this time he grabs me? What if this time he drags me away?

I’m here alone. No one would see me if I disappeared in this storm.

The next three knocks are vicious, brutal, like someone is trying to kick the door in.

Without thinking, I sprint to the back of the house and out into the rain, the back door slamming behind me. I dash down the alleyway, too terrified to check behind me, my legs powering forward as I splash through newly formed puddles. I cut around the corner, heading to the closest, busiest bus stop. The rain soaks through my clothes, my shoes, my hair, but still I run.

A bus pulls up just as I reach the stop, and I dart onto it, my purse still across my body, never having taken it off. Trips’ phone is clutched in my hand, but my own broken phone is sitting on the counter at the house. I swipe my bus pass and hurry to the back, my shoes squelching on the floor.

I sneak a glance out the window—I don’t see anyone, but I still feel like I’m being watched, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck at attention.

The bus takes me past the shuttle between the Minneapolis and St. Paul campuses. Still focused on getting away, I switch to the shuttle to Emma’s—it’s as safe a place as any, and at least she has both a phone and the guys’ phone numbers.

I huddle in the back corner of the bus, curled tight to keep from shivering in my soaked clothes. The bus is mostly empty—no one wants to be out in this weather.

A few blocks from Emma’s I climb off, the rainstorm chasing the bus, keeping pace with me the whole way. By the time I get to Emma’s apartment, I’m as wet as if I dove into a lake with all my clothes on. The rumble of thunder is a constant hum around me as I sprint into her lobby and onto the elevator, desperate to be somewhere dry and safe.

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