Page 70 of His Every Move

“Fuck—are you okay? Where are you?” I shot out of the booth and motioned Zack to follow.

“I’m fine. I wasn’t here, I just got home—but our place is trashed, glass everywhere. They came in through the fire escape.”

“Shit, okay. Don’t touch anything. I’m on my way.”

Zack tossed a few bills on the table, and we bolted from the bar. My pulse hammered in my ears, my anxiety skyrocketing with every step.

This was my biggest fear come to life. And if Fran had been home and gotten hurt… I would have never been able to deal with the guilt. It would have fully wrecked me.

By the time we reached my apartment, my hands shook so badly I could barely open the door. Fran stood just inside, eyes wide and fearful, a police officer at her side. Behind her, our home was chaos—shattered glass scattered across the floor, furniture overturned, cushions torn open, stuffing spilling out like guts made of fluffy cotton. The room felt violated, dangerous. I could almost smell Nomad. Feel his presence inside my home. It stuck to me like an oil spill, clinging to my skin, slipping into my lungs and making it difficult to catch my breath.

“Oh my God,” I said, stepping carefully over shards of glass.

Fran’s voice wavered. “Who would do this, Eli? Why?”

My mind raced. Nomad. Had to be Nomad. Fuck. I turned around, heart hammering as I scanned the corners of the apartment.

“The cameras—” Fran began.

“I took them down.” My voice cracked, the reality crashing down hard. “Fuck, I took them down last week.”

Zack pulled me into a comforting hug. “It’s okay. We’ll figure this out.”

But it wasn’t okay. Nothing was fucking okay. It felt like nothing wouldeverbe okay.

“Are you the other roommate?” the police officer asked me. She had a notepad in her hand and looked slightly bored.

“I am,” I said, feeling my knees start to shake. I leaned against Zack. He put an arm around my side and helped hold me up.

“Would you be okay with giving me a statement?”

“Yes, just… one second.” I reached for my phone instinctively, dialing Benji’s number. He’d know what to do. Maybe he had figured something out. Maybe it had triggered Nomad somehow. It rang and rang, finally clicking over to voicemail.

“Benji, please call me back. Something happened—I need you.”

The words hung heavy as I ended the call. Fuck. Despite everything, Benji was still the first person I thought to turn to.

And now, he wasn’t answering.

Chapter25

Benji Morrison

My head spunas I reached over to my nightstand and turned off my alarm. Fuck. Why the hell was it even going off? Wasn’t it a Saturday? Or was it Sunday?

I blinked away the drowsy sleep clouding my eyes. My hands hurt like a motherfucker. I winced and rolled out of bed, pushing myself up.

“Ow, fuck!” A series of sharp, stinging pains radiated up through my arms. I looked down and noticed two bloody handprints on my bed. “What the…”

My hands… they were covered in blood. Mostly dry, but some cuts had reopened. My bedsheets were coated in it. So was my phone. I looked to the corner of the room where Lucky’s bed was. Thankfully, he slept in a curled-up ball without any blood on or around him.

“No, no… what happened? What the fuck?”

I tried to pull at the memories of last night but couldn’t find anything. It was a sea of black. I had drunk myself into total oblivion. I wanted to escape the pain, wanted to forget about my life and my problems, even for only just a few days.

But this… what had I done?

I rushed into my bathroom and turned on the faucet. There were clothes all over the floor, the sink was a disaster, there was grime in the tiles of the shower. Vomit crusted the rim of my toilet.

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