Page 47 of Riot

“I don’t know.” My heart tripled in beat. “Something feels off.”

“Off how?”

“Like I’m not alone.” The words sounded paranoid even to my own ears, but the sensation only got worse. A crawling awareness between my shoulder blades, the kind that made prey animals freeze in tall grass.

“Do you need me to come over?”

“No. I’m probably just—” I stopped. The feeling hadn’t come from nowhere. It had started the moment I’d walked into the kitchen. “I’ll call you back.”

“Don’t you dare—”

I hung up.

The silence rushed back in, louder than before. My thumb found Riot’s contact and opened a text.

Random question. Is paranoia a side effect of the bite?

Three dots appeared almost immediately. Then his response came through.

No. Why?

Because I swear someone’s in my house with me.

Sent.

I waited, phone clutched in my hand, pulse pounding behind my eyes.

I’m ten minutes out. Stay on the line with me.

Can’t. Gonna check the rest of the house.

Calvin.

I pocketed the phone before I could read his next message. If someone was here, I needed to know. The alternative, waiting like a spooked rabbit while my imagination ran wild, was worse.

Grabbing the lunch meat from the counter, I turned toward the fridge to put it away.

Miguel stood three feet behind me.

The turkey slipped from my fingers. It hit the linoleum with a wet slap that sounded obscenely loud in the quiet kitchen. My body locked up. Every muscle seized. Every thought scattered.

“Morning.” His voice was soft. Almost pleasant. The same syrupy tone he’d used at the laundromat, but here, in my kitchen, with no one else around, it landed differently. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Taking a step back, I felt the fridge handle press against my hip. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. It never did. “You were on the phone. Didn’t want to interrupt.”

His posture was relaxed. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders loose. Everything about him projected casual indifference, but his eyes tracked my every movement with a focus that made my skin crawl.

“Ramos is still asleep.” I kept my voice even. “If you’re looking for him.”

“I’m not.”

The room suddenly felt smaller. Tighter. The distance between us had shrunk to something uncomfortable, and I hadn’t seen him move.

“What do you want, Miguel?”

“Just wanted to talk.” His head tilted. “You and me. Get to know each other better.”