Page 44 of Lyric

As we got to the door, he shook his head. “I found the door like this when I got here.”

I glanced past him. It was ajar.

“It’s a mess inside,” he said.

“What?” If anything, I was tidy. It wasn’t a big place, so it was easy to keep clean.

I hurried forward on my crutches and pushed the door wide open. If not for my crutches, I would have fallen to my knees.

Inside, I could see the living room and open kitchen. Furniture had been moved and tipped on its sides. Knick-knacks and pillows were thrown to the floor. There was broken glass on the carpet and my TV screen was cracked.

Slowly, I stumbled in. The place had been destroyed.

Lyric put his hand on my shoulder to steady me.

“You’ll need to make a police report. Do you have renter’s insurance?” The landlord was talking too fast.

“Colt did this.”

Without looking back at the other two men, I limped to my bedroom and gasped.

The mattress was off the bedframe. Blankets and clothes were scattered everywhere. They’d been torn and some sort of dark liquid poured all over them. It smelled like tar.

Nothing was left untouched. Nothing was salvageable.

After that, I remembered very little. The cops came and talked to me and took a report, my second in as many days. Their words went in one ear and out the other.

Afterward, Lyric led me out to the parking lot.

“I found your spare car keys where you said they were.”

I nodded. “At least I have that.”

As Lyric pulled into the parking lot of the building where I worked, I directed him to my car. A flutter of panic went through me. This was where Colt had grabbed me. My car was still there. I thought the police might impound it as evidence, but it looked untouched.

We drove up to my car and my breath shot out of me. More shock and pain. I’d spoken too soon about having my car back. I jumped out and circled it, breath held. Every tire was flat. The sides were keyed and something sticky, like the tar in my apartment bedroom, had been rubbed onto the door handles.

I let out a low keen.

“We’ll have it towed and fixed.” Lyric stood behind me, hand on my shoulder again, warm and supportive. “My mechanic is very reliable and fast.”

Lyric led me back to his car. It was a good thing he was there. I could barely see.

When I was seated, I put my hands to my face and started to silently cry.

Lyric got in the driver’s seat and sat quietly, his hand on my arm, as I let my emotions flow.

After my body stopped heaving for breath, he petted my hair away from his face and handed me tissues. He kissed the side of my wet, hot face.

“I promise we’ll fix everything. It will be okay.”

“Who does something like this?” I wiped my tears.

“Someone who is very broken,” he replied.

17

Lyric

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