Page 201 of Their Arrangement
I didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He opened his door. The stairwell creaked beneath our weight.
The air smelled like burnt dust and old heat. When we reached my door, I froze. The frame had been reinforced. Wolfe had done that. New bolts. Steel braces along the edges. The lock looked surgical. Precise. He’d rebuilt the barrier. But nothing would make this place feel safe again.
He unlocked the door with a code I didn’t remember giving him. Then opened it first. Stepped in. Waited. I followed. And froze.
It smelled like him now. Not the attacker. Not blood. But Wolfe. Like cedar and frost and control.
Still, the ghost of what happened lingered beneath it. A half-shadow in every corner. A whisper in the air vents. A warning in the lightbulb that still flickered when I shut the door behind us.
I didn’t speak. Just moved into the bedroom. My chest was tight. Hands too slow.
I pulled a duffel from the closet and unzipped it. Started with the essentials. T-shirts. Underwear. The only jeans that didn’t cut into my hips when I sat down.
I tried to move fast. But every drawer I opened made me feel like I was stealing from my own life. Like I wasn’t coming back. Wolfe stood near the door. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
But I felt him there. Every breath I took caught on the silence he gave me. When I reached for my nightstand drawer,I paused. I hadn’t opened it since the break-in. It should’ve been empty. It wasn’t.
A note.
Folded.
Tucked just behind my old journal.
My throat closed before I could even reach for it.
But I did.
Hands trembling.
I unfolded the paper.
One line.
Time’s not up. But it will be.
Signed only:
S.
My knees buckled. I sat down on the edge of the bed like someone had cut the strings holding me upright. The note slipped from my fingers and landed face-up in my lap.
Wolfe stepped forward. His shadow stretched across the floor toward me. He didn’t ask what it said. Didn’t need to. Because he saw my face. And that was enough.
I stared at it like it might catch fire in my hands. I wanted to scream. To cry. To tear the apartment apart and find the cameras I suddenly felt watching me again. But I didn’t. I folded the note. Tucked it into the hoodie’s front pocket. And zipped it.
Wolfe was still in the kitchen when I walked out. He’d packed a small bag—clean, perfect, like a soldier’s field kit. He looked up. Eyes scanned me. Saw the color leave my face. Saw the tension in my shoulders.
“What did you find?”
I shook my head.
“Nothing.”
He didn’t press.
Didn’t blink.
Just held out the bag.
