Let Me Burn by Elodie Colt
Nathan
As soon as Kate Dugan leaves my office, I shoot straight for the garage and tug myself into my car, with only one purpose in mind.
Getting to Ella right now.
I rev the engine of my BMW, breaking every speed limit and irritating lame-ass drivers as I snake through the lanes. What the fuck am I going to say to her? How is she going to react when I show up on her doorstep? Maybe she will throw a fit. Maybe she will break out in tears. Maybe she will slap me so hard, I’m going to run around with a red cheek for the next two days.
I don’t give a fuck. I just want to find her. To be face-to-face with her. To watch her lips moving as she screams at me. To see her eyes blazing with her rage. To see how she cocks her hip as she demands answers.
A red light forces me to hit the brakes, and I curse, slapping a hand onto the steering wheel.
Silent Sins was never supposed to last. Kate said she’d rarely seen matches like Ella and me who’ve stuck it out in the Room for so long. Everyone would get crazy at some point, she said. Good to know. I was already about to hire a shrink to set me straight.
My hands clench around the steering wheel as I near the huge apartment complex on Brighton Beach boulevard. No idea if Ella is home. Doesn’t matter. I’ll lie low the entire night if I have to.
I glide my BMW into the first spot on the curb, ignoring the big ‘no parking’ sign. Hit me with all the tickets in New York, officers, or tow me off. I really don’t care.
My palms are sweaty as I kill the engine, and I shuffle out of my suit jacket before I step out with my heart racing in my chest. The spring breeze does nothing to cool my overheated skin as I make my way over to the entrance door of building number six, my eyes riveted on a window of Ella’s apartment on the sixth floor. Alas, I can’t see shit from this angle, but who knows, maybe she’s been waiting for her knight in shining armor, letting down her hair like Rapunzel.
None of that happens, though, and I scan the list of names on the wall. Ella Jenkins. Sixth floor. Sixth apartment.
My stomach makes a silly flip as I lift my finger to ring the bell. What if she answers? I could pull the plumber trick. Tell her that facility management discovered a leak in the water pipes. Or I could slip into the role of the delivery guy, pretending to have a package for her.
I shake my head. Don’t be a fucking coward, dude.
Blowing out all my air at once, I hit the metal knob. The buzz of the bell is annoyingly loud, and I fumble with Ella’s pendant as I wait for the door to open. Seconds tick by, my shoe tapping on the ground.
Suddenly, the door clicks open, and I whirl around only to see a boy dashing out with his bicycle in tow. I slip inside and start up the staircase, slowing my steps when I reach her apartment.
I swallow despite the ache in the back of my throat. A dirty, tawny mat lies in front of the door, printed with ‘HI. I’M MAT.’ I smirk, but then frown when I notice a chunk of broken metal and cut-off cables dangling from the top corner of the wall. Looks as if someone had ripped out a camera installed there. Guess it makes sense now why Wayde lost access to her security system. It just leaves the question: What happened?
I lift my hand and knock three times. Holding my breath, I try to catch any footsteps. Something creaks behind me, and I turn around to see an old lady hobbling out, her cane tappingon the tiles. She scowls at me with narrowed eyes.
“Uh, good day, Ma’am,” I say to lower her suspicions, but her cantankerous expression stays in place, deepening her wrinkles.
“She was out of her mind, that girl,” she croaks, pointing at the remains of the camera. “Took a rolling pin and started smashing around like mad.”
Dread fills my insides as I flash a glance at Ella’s door before I veer my gaze back to the woman.
“Do you know if Miss Jenkins is home?”
She shrugs. “Haven’t seen her the entire week. Last time I saw her, she left with a bunch of bags.”
I nod to the corner of the wall. “Any idea why she did this?”
She snorts, the motion prompting her to cough out her lungs and spit into a used tissue. “That girl’s crazy if you ask me. Always locked herself up inside her four walls, never greeted anyone, and woke up the entire neighborhood with her damn motorcycle. I even saw her with a gun once. Maybe she put a bullet into her head, who knows…”
I grind my teeth, heat flushing my body at the nasty words leaving her mouth. She coughs into her tissue once more, making me wish she’ll choke on her phlegm and drop dead on the spot.
“You should go back inside and get some rest,” I say in a darker tone, letting her know that our conversation is done. “I can take it from here, thank you.”
With a grumble, she shuffles back inside. I wait until she’s gone before I rap on Ella’s door again, more vigorously this time. No answer.
I slap my palm against the wood, hanging my head. What if she moved out of town? What if she decided to wipe the slate clean and start a new life elsewhere?
I stare at her door, brooding. I need to get in there, see if she left anything that could give me a clue as to where she went. The door is locked, and I’m not exactly an expert on breaking into other people’s homes.
But you know someone who is.
“Fuck,” I mutter, raking a hand through my hair and yanking out my phone. Vincent picks up on the first ring.
“I need your help,” I say flat out.
He remains unfazed by my harsh tone. “What kind of help?”
“The only kind you’re good for.”
* * *
I spendthe rest of the afternoon poking around the block in hopes of spotting my girl somewhere (no success here) and checking the garage for her bike (no success here, either). Ella is gone. I just need to find out if she left for good or only temporarily.
Vincent arrives at Brighton Beach right after night has settled. I position myself in front of the old trout’s door to obscure the peephole while Vincent pulls one of his con-tricks with a picklock, a credit card, and a smug look on his face.
Making sure the coast is clear, I venture inside Ella’s home. I’ve only taken three steps forward when it hits me like a cannonball.
Her scent.
I swear, if I were alone right now, I’d sniff every nook and corner just to see where the whiff of green tea is the strongest, and where the aroma of passion fruit begins.
Vincent activates the flashlight on his phone.
“You’re alright?” he asks when I stand there like the creepy guy in Perfume: The Story of a Murderer using his sense of smell to find his next victim. He sighs. “Listen, what I said earlier—”
“Save it,” I cut him off, my strained voice conveying that he’d better not rock the boat right now unless he fancies another crook in his nose. He has the good sense to keep his mouth shut and follows me in silence as I roam Ella’s apartment.
It’s modern yet simple with gray accents, fluffy carpets, and dust-free surfaces. She likes to keep it clean, just like me. A few Russian dictionaries are fanned out on a desk next to a computer with a 24-inch monitor, and a yoga mat lies in the middle of the small but cozy living room.
But the longer I scour about, the more I realize that she hasn’t been here for some time. The palm tree in the corner is dehydrated, its leaves withered, and succumbing to gravity. The cupboards in her bathroom are empty—no toothpaste, no shampoo, not even a fucking tampon.
“Here,” Vincent says, and I walk over to him as he picks up the remains of a phone. “Looks as if someone destroyed it on purpose.”
I curse. “Shit. So much for my idea to track her GPS.”
“Maybe Wayde can make use of it.”
He lets the phone vanish into his pocket, and I continue my exploration. The kitchen speaks of her passion for cooking—well equipped with all kinds of kitchen devices, an array of spices neatly arranged on a cupboard, and a big pile of cookbooks stacked on a shelf.
“Doesn’t look like a break-in, if you ask me,” Vincent muses. “Your girl left this place. Willingly.”
He swipes his flashlight over the space, and my heart pummels into my stomach when I notice stacks of aquarium supplies beneath a small table, but… no aquarium.
She’s gone, and I have no clue where she went. No note to give me an address. No plane ticket to give me a destination. Not one fucking hint.
And that’s when reality crashes over my head.
I came too late.