Page 118 of Blindside Sinner

I want to drop the boxers off at the guest house because I don’t want him to find them yet, and all I have in his room is a single drawer and a four-inch space in his closet.

But when I walk around the back of the house to the walkway to my place, something is off. The door to the apartment is at the wrong angle.

And it’s open.

I put my bags down and use a hand flat against the metal door to push it open so I can peer inside. And then, without a thought to safety or who might still be in there, I shove it open the rest of the way and walk in.

Someone’s been in here, all right.

And destroyed everything.

The smell of bleach is pungent. My clothes are in a pile in the center of the room, doused and fading as I stand there. The windows are broken and glass crackles under my feet with every step.

When I try to turn the light on, nothing happens. It’s the moment I think I should get out, but I don’t because it’s also at that moment I see it.

The note.

Because of course there’s a note. The furniture is slashed to bits, pages torn from books, and everything I own is destroyed, but all I can see is the note. It matches the others I’ve gotten for months and ignored. I snatch it up, grab the others, and walk out to hide them into the shopping bags.

Then I dial the police.

59

BECK

It’s been a hell of a good day.

My new contract deal with the Wave that means I have six years guaranteed with a fat yearly paycheck, bonuses built in for postseason play, and a yearly incentive for points. The team’s happy, I’m happy, and I don’t have to worry about being traded, thanks to the no-trade clause.

I’m in Seattle for good. What a wild thought. This city was always just a place I lived. It didn’t become home until Sloan arrived.

Now that it is, I never want to leave.

As I turn into the Denny Blaine section of the city, I can see red-and-blue lights in the sky. I absently wonder what is going on. My neck of Seattle doesn’t see a lot of police presence because most of the homes are privately patrolled and those guys don’t fuck around. They shoot first and ask questions later.

But there’s no denying what it is. Red and blue against the darkness. Flashing. Scaring. Warning.

The closer I get to home, the brighter the sky gets, and the more my stomach twists into a hard knot.

Then I round the corner and my heart seizes up in my chest.

My gate is standing wide open and there are about six police cruisers in the drive. I pull the car in haphazardly, throw it in park, and leap out with the engine still running. I have one thought and one thought only running through my mind.

Sloan.

I have to get to Sloan.

There’s no sign of life anywhere. I run through the house, calling out to her with no response. I only grind to a halt when I look through the kitchen window and see her in the back of the house near the pool with a bunch of cops.

They’re walking around, in and out of the guest house with deep-etched frowns on their faces.

I sprint outside. Before I can get to her, a cop puts his hands on my chest. “Woah, buddy. Just hang on a sec. Who are you?”

I shove him away hard. “Get the fuck off me.”

I might’ve just technically assaulted an officer of the law, but ask me if I give a fuck. Nothing and no one, armed or not, is stopping me from getting to Sloan.

“Sloan.” I breathe her name into her hair as I pull her close to me. She’s trembling.

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