Page 12 of Claiming His Bunny
I head over to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water, drinking half of it before a thought registers in my mind, and I slowly turn around. The glass slips out of my hand and shatters on the floor.
There’s a bouquet of blue flowers on my kitchen table that wasn’t there in the morning. Worse still, they’re in a crooked vase I made in a pottery class as a child. A vase that was in one of the boxes I brought over from Kansas City. A vase I most certainly haven’t unpacked yet.
My breath catches, my heart pounding against my rib cage.
Someone has been here.
Chapter 8
Kayla
Three hours later, I’mexhausted, beyond annoyed, and still haven’t taken that shower or had that cup of tea. The police are tracking dirt all over my floor as they move around the house and have yet to come up with anything useful.
All the doors and windows were locked, and there are no signs of forced entry. As far as I can tell, they didn’t steal anything. My electronics and the few pieces of jewelry I own are all still here. The police even had me check my clothes to see if anything was missing, like my underwear—which is disturbing to think about—but nothing seems to be gone.
I don’t get it.
What kind of burglar doesn’t take anything? What kind of person enters someone’s home to leave flowers behind?
Bluebells. All the flowers were bluebells. How fucking poetic.
Is someone trying to welcome me to Bluebell Springs? Or is it a threat? I’ve only been here for two days. I don’t know anyone outside of work. The only person I’ve had a conflict with was Laurel, and I don’t see her doing this.
Watching the deputies wander around aimlessly, I rub the bridge of my nose and let out an exasperated sigh. They took the vase to check it for prints, but I can already tell they won’t find any. Whoever did this wouldn’t be so stupid to leave fingerprints behind, not with how they entered and left the house without a trace.
Amy’s words about locking the door ring in my ears, but this time, I’m not laughing. I need better locks.
The sheriff approaches, and I already know what he’s going to say before the words leave his mouth. “There are no signs of forced entry, Ms. Reynolds. Are you sure it wasn’t just a friend stopping by? Or someone welcoming you to town? The flowers are bluebells,” he points out like I’m stupid.
“No one has the keys but me and my landlord, and he’s abroad right now,” I explain for the fourth or fifth time. “Someone must have picked the locks to get inside.”
Sheriff sighs. “That is certainly possible. Or made a copy of the keys while the real estate agency had them. But since nothing was taken, I wouldn’t think much into it. This town is full of good, law-abiding people. No serial killers,” he adds, grinning as if he just made a hilarious joke. “I’d recommend you change the locks. If you feel unsafe, I can leave a cruiser stationed in front of your house. They’ll keep an eye on things and make sure there aren’t any more pranks.”
Pranks? Seriously? How did this incompetent idiot become the sheriff? I want to scream at him, but I hold back since he already thinks I’m overreacting. As if there’s such a thing as overreacting when it comes to a stranger invading your home. “That would be great, thank you.” At least they’ll find my fucking body faster when I get murdered in my sleep.
I should probably be scared out of my mind, but right now, I’m just angry. At the sheriff and his gaggle of idiots, but also at the person who came into my house.
How dare they?! They ruined my good mood. Now I’m tired, hungry, and still haven’t had that shower I desperately need, just because some asshole thought it’d be funny to break into my house and mess with me.
I’ll be afraid later, when I’m alone here, but right now, I’m livid. And I need to get these damned cops out of my house before I start screaming at them. Fortunately, they leave quickly, the sheriff promising to keep me updated on the case.
One car remains behind, parked by the curb. The two deputies inside look bored out of their minds already. It’s probably a good thing they can’t have phones while on duty, because they’d be glued to them the whole time.
I’m tempted to scream out, just to see if they’ll come running over or ignore me, but I stop myself. There’s no need to piss them off. Besides, I might not like the result of that little experiment.
I shut the curtains on all windows, including the ones facing the patch of trees in the back. Is that bastard out there, watching me? Laughing? I flip the trees a finger before shoving the last curtain closed. There. They can watch the stupid floral pattern now.
I set the biggest kitchen knife I have on my nightstand. If the bastard comes back, I’m totally stabbing them.
The hot water washes away some of my anger, but it’s not a good thing. Fear creeps in instead, sending shivers down my spine as I towel off. The bathroom has a frosted window, and I pulled the curtain over it too, but I still feel eyes on me.
I clench my fists to stop them from shaking, then scowl at my reflection. “I’m not afraid,” I tell myself, steeling my voice. “I’m not fucking afraid. This is my house. My life. I will not let some manipulative asshole ruin it.”
The pep talk works until I get into bed and turn off the light. Every time I close my eyes, I hear a rustle that jerks me awake. My mind is reeling, conjuring vivid images of someone breaking in and murdering me in my sleep. Or worse.
I toss and turn for long hours, and the rising sun finds me in the kitchen, downing my fourth cup of coffee just to keep my eyes open.
I fucking hate this person, and I hope they die a terrible death!
