Page 103 of Love Bleeds Red
I lead the way to my bike, waiting as Mum’s phone rings and rings. When her voicemail picks up, I hang up and call again.
“She’s not answering. Maybe you should stay here. It might not be safe.”
She glances back at the house, then without a word, climbs onto the seat of my bike.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“I’ve spent over a year trapped between four walls. Yes, I’m positive.”
The rideback to Mum’s house feels endless. My body clenches more and more with every turn. It’s not like her to miss my calls. Even when she’s at work, or out with friends, she’s alwaysanswered me. Then I think about Alfred’s words last night, about his missed call earlier.
Could he have already gotten to her?
I tighten my grip on the handlebars and try to focus on the comforting pressure of Bailey’s arms wrapped around my waist. The warmth of her body pressed against my back. It’s the only thing keeping me grounded right now.
When we pull up the narrow street, Mum’s beat up Ford is still in its usual spot, parked against the curb. Nothing looks amiss—the gate is latched, the front door closed. But still my stomach won’t stop churning.
I cut the engine and help Bailey off first before digging in my backpack for my gun. This feeling that something’s off won’t go the hell away, and I’d rather be prepared. So I tuck it into my jeans, and pull my shirt over it.
“Leon?” Bailey’s voice is soft as she holds my shoulder.
“Just being cautious,” I murmur, retrieving the spare key from under the loose brick by the gate. My hand finds hers instinctively. “Stay right behind me, love.”
She doesn’t respond, but her fingers tighten around my bicep as I unlock the front door. The creaky hinges sound so much louder than normal.
“Mum?” I call out as we step inside.
Nothing but silence answers.
“Mum? I’m home!”
Still nothing. It feels wrong in here. Like the air was disturbed somehow. It’s too quiet. Too still.
Bailey’s grip on my arm tenses as we move through the narrow hallway. I gesture for her to stay close as we check the sitting room first. Everything looks normal. Spotlessly clean as usual. Mum’s knitting is sitting in a basket near the couch, her reading glasses on the side table next to yesterday’s newspaper.
“Kitchen,” I whisper, leading Bailey toward the back of the house.
The kitchen is also spotless, which again is normal for her, but even her favorite mug sits clean and bone dry in the dish rack. There’s no sign of morning tea, not even a crumb from her toast. That uneasy feeling becomes a large pit in my gut.
“Stay here,” I tell Bailey softly, leading her to wait by the back door. “If anything happens, you run. Don’t look back.”
I take the stairs two at a time, my hand resting on the gun’s grip. “Mum?” I call again, louder this time.
Her bedroom door is open slightly. I stand in front of it for a second, taking a deep breath, before pushing it open fully. I exhale, part of me was expecting to find the worst, but the room is empty. Her bed is made as always, not a pillow out of place.
I step out and notice my old bedroom door is wide open.
My pulse pounds in my ears as I step inside.
No. No. No.
The space has been completely ransacked. My desk, the command center I’d carefully set up with my laptops and equipment is bare. Every cable, every drive, every piece of specialized hardware I’d brought from New York is gone. Even the legal pad where I’d jotted down notes has vanished.
The bastard took everything. Not just my mother, but my weapons too.
“Leon?” Bailey’s voice drifts up from downstairs.
“Coming,” I call back. My voice sounds as empty as my room.
