I can’t help but to focus on the fact that last time I showered here, Marcus brought roses to my kitchen. He broke in and not a soul knew while I was in this very bathroom. I check my bedroom the moment I step out of the shower, wrapped in nothing but a towel, although I hold on to my gun with a tight grip. The lightweight Beretta hasn’t left my side since I’ve come home.

I take careful steps into every room and I truly wish there were some sign of someone else, even if it’s only Mrs. and Mr. Whitmore arguing over the television channel and what to watch next.

No one’s here. Not a sound can be heard except for my own nervous heartbeat. My apartment is empty, the security system up and running. A click on the keypad to my laptop, open on my kitchen counter, would show any movement at all surrounding the apartment. Of course I see various people coming and going, mostly neighbors and their friends flowing through the locked front door as they’re buzzed in.

With the pads of my feet still damp, I vacate the empty kitchen. The perfectly cleaned island counter, lacking anything at all on it, stays in my mind.

Back in the bedroom, I recheck all the windows. It’s the back bedroom window that I’m certain Marcus came in through before. I don’t have any proof but it would only make sense. It backs up to brush, so it’d be difficult, but it’s quiet along that street with hardly anyone there to witness a break-in.

With a prick climbing up my spine, I stare at the window, the gun slipping against my palms until I breathe out a frustrated sigh.

This is necessary. Getting used to being home alone after a break-in is something that simply has to happen. I’m not the only one who goes through this anxiety. There’s a break-in nearly every thirteen seconds, adding up to over two and a half million a year. So many people go through this. Still, as I set the gun down on the counter, remove my shower cap and stare at my reflection, I loathe that fear is leading my actions. I suppose the comparison isn’t quite the same. Two and a half million people don’t encounter serial killers … or get gifted flowers and forbidden kisses during their break-ins.

My gaze drops to my lips and I let my fingertips drift there. It’s not like I’d use the gun, I remind myself as I set it down and go about my routine.

I have questions and Marcus has answers. Answers Cody supposedly doesn’t have. Taking my time with my moisturizer and normal nightly routine, I let the accusations toward both Cody and Marcus build up in my mind. Right before shutting them all down again.

My bed creaks when I sit on the edge of it, spreading a sweet-smelling lavender lotion down my thighs and calves. The oversized sleep shirt I’m wearing is a soft cotton and I let myself breathe for a moment. Auntie Susan used to tell me, You have to give yourself grace; no one else will.