“I’m on the eighth floor.”

“You still installed window sensors, didn’t you?”

Mitchell swallowed and nodded.

“Go,” Hazard said.

So Mitchell tottered away, clutching the film to his chest. While Mitchell worked on the windows, Hazard installed a security bar on the apartment’s front door. Then he went into the bedroom and bolted down a floor-mounted door lock. By the time he’d finished, Mitchell was done with the windows.

“This,” Hazard said, demonstrating how the security bar worked, “you set every time you come into the apartment. Understand? The first thing it does is fix the deadbolt in place; the asshole won’t be able to pick the lock. Even if he somehow cuts through the bolt or knocks the door free from the strike plate, the bar will keep the door shut. There’s no way he can get through this before the police get here.”

Mitchell nodded.

“This floor-mounted lock,” Hazard said, leading him into the bedroom, “reinforces the bedroom door at the base, which is where it’s weakest. This is the second line of defense. If you hear anything—anything, Mitchell—that sounds like somebody’s trying to get inside, you get your ass back here, you close the door, and you step down here. Watch what I’m doing. That’s it. Nobody can kick down this door, not with this thing in the way. As soon as you’re in the bedroom, you call the police. When you’re sleeping, you make sure this is engaged. No exceptions. No variations. And no hookups, Mitchell. If you and Nico are fucking, that’s one thing.”

“We’re not—we aren’t even—”

“But no randoms, no strangers, no guys you pick up at the Pretty Pretty. Not until this is over.”

Mitchell nodded again; he looked a little pasty.

“Questions?”

He shook his head.

“Let’s get you to work,” Hazard said. “You’re on a strict routine until this is settled: either you’re at work or you’re with me.”

“That’s going to make cuddle time with Nico awkward.” Mitchell grinned and held up both hands. “I’m totally kidding. Don’t kill me.”

Rolling his eyes, Hazard headed toward the door.

CHAPTER FIVE

JULY 1

MONDAY

6:13 PM

SOMERS TOSSED A SALAD: romaine, cucumbers, grape tomatoes, feta, and big, fat kalamata olives. Then he seared chicken breasts. His eyes went to the clock. At first, every five minutes or so. And then, after the chicken breasts were cooled and sliced on a cutting board, every two minutes. After that, he started checking his phone. The digital clock on the lock screen stared back at him.

When the garage door rattled up, Somers blew out a breath, gave himself a mental shake, and took plates out of the cabinet. He gave the salad another toss as the door between the house and the garage opened. Look at me, happy and domestic. Could he paint a sign on his back?

“Hey,” he said, turning to grab the first plate, “did you get held up? I thought you were going to be home early.”

His fingers closed over the plate; his hand lifted. And then he saw Hazard’s face: washed out, dark spots under his eyes, like he was sick or exhausted. Somers tried to set the plate back down, but his fingers released too early.