Page 7 of Vows Made in Silence
I get up and move through the apartment in bare feet, checking the locks out of habit. But the window near the kitchen? I pause. It’s shut—but not how I left it. The latch is twisted just slightly off-center.
Panic flares, cold and sharp.
I press my palm against the glass, anchoring myself to the here and now. But I’ve learned the hard way—when your gut starts screaming, you listen.
Because paranoia keeps you alive.
I move to the bookshelf and slide my hand along the spines until I find the cracked volume of Neruda’s poems—my signal. I tug it, and the hidden drawer clicks open.
Empty.
I return to my bedroom and check the drawer beneath my bed. The burner phone I haven’t touched in years… is missing.
The drawer is open half an inch. I never leave it like that.
I drop to my knees and yank it the rest of the way open. Nothing. The burner phone—the one only three people ever had the number to—is gone.
A chill crawls up my spine, slow and paralyzing. Someone was here.
Someone walked through Daniel’s room. Through my kitchen. Through the life I’ve tried so hard to build.
The air smells… wrong. Like stale cologne and meta. I swallow hard. My eyes dart to the photo frame by the window—shiftedslightly, the corner smudged. Daniel’s face is no longer staring back at me, innocent and unaware.
They took it.
I force myself to scan the apartment again. The rug by the front door—off-center by two inches. The drawer with Daniel’s school supplies—half open. The curtain string out of place though no breeze passes through.
Whoever came here wasn’t just here for the burner phone.
They were sending me a message: I can reach you anywhere. I know who you love. I know where he sleeps.
I stagger to the wall, bracing my palm flat against the cold surface. My legs tremble, threatening to give. I want to scream, to tear the apartment apart. But I can’t. Daniel is still asleep. He can’t know.
I clamp a hand over my mouth and squeeze my eyes shut. I force myself to count to ten. Then twenty.
When I open my eyes again, the apartment feels foreign. Violated.
I can’t stay here.
The locks. The window. The signal drawer. My sanctuary, my safety net—breached.
Whoever it was… they were careful.
Professional.
I pull on a sweatshirt, hands shaking, and step toward the closet and move the box to find the small hole in the floorboard where I keep the emergency bag. It’s all still there—untouched—but the knowledge does nothing to slow my pulse.
Whoever came wasn’t looking for money.
My real phone buzzes. One notification. Unknown number. The message reads: You’ve always had an eye for beautiful things.
—
The room shrinks around me.
My hands tremble as I grip the phone tighter. I want to run. But I force myself to stand still.
Think. Guiliana.
