Page 216 of Faking the Goal

They're true.

Far too true.

And I'm not ready for her to know that yet.

By the time we reach her apartment door, Taylor is barely awake again. She fumbles with her keys while trying to suppress another yawn, muttering something about how cruel it is that locks require hand-eye coordination after midnight. I wait beside her until the key finally turns, then watch her push the door open and step inside.

"Text me when you're in bed," I tell her.

She glances back over her shoulder. "You're literally watching me enter my apartment."

"Text me anyway."

Her tired smile softens. "Bossy."

"Good night, Trouble."

"Good night, Ken-chan."

I wait until she crosses the threshold before turning away, already reaching into my pocket for my keys. I haven't made it more than a few steps down the hall when a scream tears through the silence behind me.

Every thought in my head disappears.

I spin around and run back so fast my shoulder nearly clips the wall. Her door is still ajar, and Taylor stands frozen in the entryway with one hand pressed over her mouth, her entire body rigid as she stares into the apartment. I'm at her side a second later, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her against me before I even understand what she's looking at.

Then I see it.

Her apartment has been destroyed.

The few pieces of furniture she owns have been overturned or ripped apart, their cushions slashed open and their stuffing scattered across the floor. One of the kitchen chairs lies in pieces near the wall. Drawers have been pulled out and dumped, leaving clothes, papers, and broken glass strewn everywhere. Her television is shattered in the center, the screen caved inward as though someone struck it again and again with something heavy. Even the small framed prints she had hanging above the couch have been torn down and smashed beneath a pair of muddy footprints.

This is rage.

Taylor trembles so violently against me that I tighten my arm around her waist, afraid her legs might give out. "Who..." Her voice breaks as a sob catches in her throat. "Who could've done this?"

I don't answer because we both already know.

There is only one person sick enough to do something like this.

The stalker.

Fuck!

I scan the room without letting go of her, checking every shadowed corner and open doorway in case whoever did this is still inside. My eyes stop on the ruined coffee table, and the anger already burning through me sharpens into something vicious.

A bouquet of black dahlias lies beside it, butchered into pieces. The stems have been snapped and twisted, the dark petals crushed into the floor as though someone took his time destroying every flower.

I press my lips to Taylor's forehead. "Stay right here."

She catches weakly at my jacket when I begin to move. "Ken—"

"I'm not going far."

I step inside only far enough to crouch beside the flowers, careful not to touch anything except the torn paper wrapped around them as I look for a card. Before I can find one, a sharp ping sounds behind me.

Taylor's phone.

I'm back beside her immediately. She stares down at the screen with shaking hands, and when I see the photograph attached to the new message, every muscle in my body locks.