Page 35 of Vega

“Maybe you need depression medication.”

I blinked slowly. “Excuse me?”

“I’m serious. A little prescription might help you stop acting like Wednesday Addams with a master’s degree.”

A laugh slipped out before I could stop it.

“There she is,” he teased. “I knew you were still in there.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“And you love me.”

I did. That was exactly why I could not tell him.

“I will call you later,” I promised.

“You better.”

“I will.”

“And eat something. You don’t eat when you get in your feelings. Your ass is too nice to go flat.”

“Goodbye, Dior.”

“Love you too, bitch.”

Something felt wrong before I even closed my front door.

I stood in the entryway with one hand wrapped around my keys and listened. But I heard no movement. My condo looked exactly like I’d left it that morning. The decorative pillows remained arranged across the couch. My book sat face down on the coffee table beside the mug I’d forgotten to put in the dishwasher. The television was off, and the curtains were closed.

Still, the silence felt wrong.

I lived alone. So, silence was normal. But suddenly my home didn’t feel peaceful.

It felt occupied.

I glanced at the alarm panel near the door. The system showed that it had disarmed normally when I entered my code. There were no alerts about a window or door opening while I’d been gone.

That should’ve reassured me, but it didn’t.

I locked the door behind me and slowly lowered my work tote to the floor. My phone was inside it, buried beneath my laptop and snacks container. I considered reaching for it, but the movement would require me to look away from the dark hallway leading toward my bedroom.

A faint sound came from somewhere deeper inside the condo. It sounded like fabric brushing against a wall or someone breathing.

“Hello?” The second the word left my mouth, the lights went out: every lamp, the light above the stove, and even the digital clock on the microwave. Darkness swallowed the entire condo.

I stumbled backward and reached across the entryway table until my hand closed around the decorative, heavy, ceramic vase.

I yanked it off the table and raised it with both hands. But my eyes struggled to adjust. A little light slipped beneath the curtains from the street, creating shadows where furniture should’ve been. I could make out the edge of the couch and the opening to the hallway.

Then a man stepped out of it. He was large enough to block most of the opening. Black clothing covered his body, gloves covered his hands, and a black poo-shiesty mask concealed every detail of his face, except his eyes.

I threw the vase, screaming.

He moved his head, but not fast enough. The vase struck his shoulder and shattered against the wall behind him.

I grabbed the pepper spray clipped inside my purse pocket.