An Eye For Danger (book 1)

Chapter 18

Chapter 18

A knock at the cubby door. My body iced over and I waited for the signal. Or a gunshot.

“Max,” Sam finally whispered.

He pulled me out of the cubby into his arms, and I hugged him so hard it hurt.

“We need to move now, baby. Just do as I say and we'll be okay.”

“Nothing’s okay. We have to run.” I pulled him toward the front door.

“We can’t go outside till I know it's clear."

"I don't care. Let's get out of here."

When I started for the door, Sam grabbed my shoulders. "Listen to me. Max is waiting upstairs. We can't leave without him. He's family, right?”

I paused, nodded.

"Good girl. Let's go get Max. We're all going to stick together now." Sam took my hands, rounded the banister, and pulled me with him. “Stay close,” Sam whispered, keeping me behind him.

Our backs slid along the wall as we took the stairs in silence. Weapon drawn, he stopped and started at each landing, his eyes searching halls, doors, shadows. His thoroughness I didn't doubt. My nerves just expected another ambush.

Max whined from afar. When we came to the third-floor landing, I veered toward my apartment, eager to hug him again. But Sam yanked me up the stairs, raising a brow when I resisted. Had he tricked me? When I wouldn’t budge, Sam wrapped an arm around my waist and carried me back into the stairwell.

Then I heard Max's whining above us, and Sam couldn't hold me back from taking the stairs double-time. Max waited at the door of my snobby neighbors’ apartment directly above mine. He gave me a slobbery reunion. I didn't care if he still had that monster's blood in his mouth

“Shhh.” Sam kneeled and started picking the lock.

The screws in my chest tightened another notch. I wasn’t worried that the Buckleys would be pissed to find their Central Park oasis broken into, regardless of harrowing circumstances. I simply wanted out of the exposed hallway faster than Sam was delivering.

Finally, he eased open the door a millimeter at a time. I huffed. We’d never get inside at this rate. He held up a fist for us to hold still as his other hand slipped through the slender opening. Something clinked, like glass. Slow and sure, he widened the opening and pulled forth two wine glasses, their stems pinched between his bloody knuckles.

“Alarm system,” he whispered, waving us inside.

Candlelight flickered up the walls and onto the ceiling, as small glass votives lined the granite countertops. The Buckleys must have returned early from Florida, since they’d sworn to never sublet the place. And here we were, crashing their romantic interlude.

Sam reset the wine glasses against the closed door. “Set them on a long sheet of paper. Close the door from the other side, and then slide the paper out. The sound of breaking glass makes intruders nervous so they make mistakes. And leave a trail.” He smiled, like he was a genius.

“And the Buckleys?”

“In Florida, like you said.”

I shook my head and I flipped on the light, illuminating dark cherry floors and cupboards from the Buckleys' last remodel, which I remembered not sleeping through.

“Not yet.” Sam shut off the light and strode into the living room, which also was awash in candlelight.

Two leather couches and a matching oversized armchair filled half the room. Between them, an oval glass coffee table reflected the glowing faux embers of a gas fireplace. I felt in awe and disgust of the room at once, the move from horror movie to romantic setting surreal at best.