Page 115 of The Cost of Silence

I waituntil the door clicks shut behind him before I let my knees wobble.

Then I head straight for the dresser, yank open the top drawer, and pull out one of Nico’s t-shirts. It smells like him, clean and sharp and warm, and I tug it over my head like armor.

Okay. Step one: breathe.

Step two: don’t throw up thinking about the rat.

Step three: work.

If trauma has taught me anything, it’s that doing nothing is my personal hell. I need motion. Purpose. Something to poke at that isn’t the inside of my own skull.

I grab my notebook from the nightstand and settle cross-legged on the bed, spine against the headboard, pen in hand. The tree lights cast soft colors across the room, blinking gently like the world hasn’t shifted an inch. Having a Christmas tree in here had been a hard sell, but after the fun we’d with the one in the living room, Nico had agreed and ordered it. Now it’s giving me comfort when my heart wants to beat out of my chest. Yesterday was perfect, and it feels a million miles away now. Pushing back my shoulders, I lift my chin and remind myself who I am.

“Fine,” I mutter. “Let’s play.”

I start with the obvious: today.

Just before noon: knock at the door. Three raps. Man’s voice: “Delivery.”

Declined.

Heard him walk away. No other doors, no other knocks.

Texted Nico. He called Rossi. Extra men on floor.

~12 p.m.: fire alarm.

My pen hovers.

I force it down.

Rossi at my door fast. Stairwell. Controlled panic. Lots of residents, no visible smoke, no smell.