“You are.” Serious now, he slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Hesitates to speak. Then, “Even I have been feeling…anxious to get everyone back on an even surface since we made love. And I’m a classic narcissist.”

“No you’re not,” I say on a burst of laughter. “Who told you that?”

“Everyone I’ve ever met.”

I take the remaining steps to my apartment door and insert the key, pushing open the door, “Well, give them my number so I can—”

My heart drops like a boulder.

The apartment is in disarray.

Books are everywhere, possessions from both rooms tossed on the floor, even food from the kitchen cabinets is smeared in places, scattered in others.

Ransacked. Someone did this on purpose.

“Tobias,” I whisper, reaching for him. My palm lands in the center of his chest and he gently captures my wrist, coming up behind me. As soon as he processes the scene from over the top of my head, he yanks me back out of the apartment, standing between me and the mess. “I assume it doesn’t always look like that?” he asks tightly.

“No. Shayna. Oh my God, my roommate—”

“Is she home this time of day?”

“No. She works downtown, but she could have called in sick or worked virtually today.” Pulse scrabbling, I wheel around him, trying to enter the apartment, but he turns quickly, wrapping his arms around my waist and preventing me from going any further. “I need to make sure she’s not in there. Shayna?”

“I will check, Elise.” He scans the hallway end to end. Searching for a threat? “You will wait right here.” The sudden change in his demeanor, from playful to imposing, renders me momentarily speechless. All I can do is watch with my hands over my mouth as he enters the apartment, stepping over throw pillows and rolls of toilet paper, disappearing into each bedroom and the bathroom, even the closets. He emerges from the final one shaking his head. “There’s no one here.”

I let out the breath I’ve been holding and step over the threshold. My immediate—albeit ridiculous—response is to begin cleaning everything up, but Tobias stops me. He takes my face in his hands and forces me to focus on him.

“Elise. The television is still here. A laptop in the other bedroom. It doesn’t appear to be a robbery.” He pauses, searching my face. “Do you have any idea who would do this?”

“No. I—” Abruptly, I cut myself off, leaving the denial hanging in the air. A chill carries up my spine and washes over the back of my neck. No. No…my apartment hasn’t been destroyed over the Alexander-Crouch story. Right? This kind of personal retaliation doesn’t happen in real life. This isn’t The Sopranos. Everything goes through lawyers and…

The picture.

It was sitting on my dresser when I left the apartment this morning.

My feet carry me into my room slowly. I already know the manila envelope is going to be missing when I step over the threshold, but I’m still knocked back a step. This confirms it—my apartment has been trashed by someone connected to the story. As far as I can tell, it’s the only thing missing.