Cal and I have fallen into a routine of waiting up for each other, giving an account of the highlights and lows of the day, then making a cup of cocoa with the music turned low before heading to bed. It’s a strange relationship to have with your employer, but I think we moved past that the night he came to my rescue. Cal’s a good guy and more than that, he’s a friend. Our easy banter and late night drinks are fast becoming my highlights. Lauren and the other girls often talk about him as a raging lothario, the eternal bachelor that doesn’t want anything more than a few drinks and a quick hard screw. When they talk about him like that, I have a hard time picturing it. He’s a tiny bit flirty and suggestive if he’s been drinking, but I’ve yet to see him with a woman. He’s professional with all the girls that work here, and he never mentions ones he sees outside of work. We seem to stray naturally away from that part of our life in our midnight conversations.

Annie told me that he screwed around on account of his long-term girlfriend getting pregnant with another man’s child while they were still together. I don’t want to ask him to confirm or deny it, but damn would I like him to open up a little more. He’s a conundrum to me. He’s all hard, masculine features, but as soft as a teddy bear if you catch him in the right mood. That’s one thing I’ve pegged pretty well; he wasn’t joking when he told me that his moods were reflected in the music he plays. The apartment is rarely ever silent; he always has something playing in the background, even if it’s turned down to barely a whisper. It’s still there, an almost perfect indicator of whether or not his nightly confessions are going to be filled with highlights or low points. In the time I’ve been staying here, I’ve only heard one Nine Inch Nails track being played, and I did what he’d requested. I stayed out of his way and skipped our run-down that evening.

I have pretty a big low to tell him about tonight, one that has my blood boiling and my stomach aching. I feel completely blindsided, pissed off and downbeat, and he’s the only person I want to talk to about it. I could call Cole, but I haven’t told him about this part of my life, and I’m not sure that I’m ready to yet, or even if I want to at all. He’s my respite from reality, and as unrealistic and deluded as I may be for thinking that I can keep my worlds separate, I intend to try.

THERE’S LITTLE IN this life that can disarm me the way a woman crying can, especially one I care about. I throw my leg over my bike, kickstart the ignition and push my phone into my back pocket, peeling away from the curb as my tires squeal and the wind stings my eyes. I don’t care that I’m driving twice the speed limit, or that I run a red light and narrowly avoid slamming into a truck as I fly over a crossroad, not giving way. Her message was laced with pained hiccupping sobs. She said she was at her apartment and that she needed me; that was enough for my heart to sink and my nerves to fray as I battled through traffic to get to her as soon as possible.

I pull up outside her building and run straight for the door, catching it as a pizza delivery guy exits. I race up the stairwell, taking them three at a time and burst through the small hallway and skid to a stop outside Tweet’s door. I don’t knock. Instead I try the handle but it’s locked, and panic swells like a raging tide in my chest. I begin shoulder barging into it, my adrenaline spiking with the memory of what I found the last time I turned up in the evening. I stand back ready to kick it down as Tweet slowly opens it. She peeks at me from behind the chain before removing it and opening the door fully for me.

Relief floods through me as I see her standing here in front of me and she doesn’t look to be roughed up. There’s no sign of blood, no bruises, no indicator that she’s in any type of physical pain. My pulse is ringing loudly in my ears, and I want to sink onto my haunches and thank God that she’s okay. But the icy thought of what might have happened that wouldn’t leave external marks flitters across my mind and the panic is back with full force.

“What happened? What’s wrong?” I ask in a hurried breath, pulling her by the wrists and crushing her against my chest. I squeeze her tight, trying to convince my body to calm down. I have her, she’s here, she’s okay. I lift her chin and move my head back so that I can see her face, noticing the redness of her eyes and the faint stain of tears across her cheeks.

“I-I came back to check my mail and make sure that Mrs. Heckles was okay,” she tells me as I walk her backward into the apartment. Listening to her voice crack breaks something deep within me.

“There was something off, I knew it the second I walked in. I got chills and noticed that my bedroom door was wide open. I always close all the doors when I leave, and shut off the lights. They were on too, and I panicked, thinking that someone was in here.” Her shoulders are jerking with the effort she’s making to keep her voice steady, and my fists clench as adrenaline floods my veins.

“I went to the kitchen and grabbed a knife. I didn’t know what I was going to find and I wanted some form of protection…I can’t cut through a cantaloupe, let alone an intruder, but I thought it might scare them away. I crept through to my room, calling out to see if anyone answered and that’s when I saw it.” Her voice gives way to the sobs, and she breaks down crying hard against my chest. I move her to the sofa and run towards the bedroom, not knowing what I’m looking for, but as I throw the door open I know it definitely wasn’t this.

Her sheets are ruffled, the blinds are closed, and there’s a fluffy white cat hanging by a woman’s belt from the ceiling fan over the bed. I look around the room, processing the scene and notice the note that lay amongst the crumpled sheets.

The sick fucks!

I wipe my hand down my face and think about the fact that Tweet had to come in here and see this. I want to kill the pricks that did this to scare her; in fact, killing them would be too good. I want to torture the disgusting bastards, see how they like being frightened for their lives. I step up onto her bed and unhook the poor cat. Once it’s down, I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t want Tweet to see me carry it out and upset her even more, but I can’t leave it in here. I open her closet and find an old gym bag stuffed into the corner. I pull it out and place the cat carefully inside, then shove the note deep into my pocket and head out into the living room.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back,” I call as I walk past quickly, holding the bag to the side facing away from her. I sprint down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk, then around the back of her building to find the dumpsters. Anger is coursing through my whole body as I place the bag down gently, and then turn on my heel and race back inside to Robyn. When I walk into her apartment I see she’s moved from her spot and is now standing in the kitchen, shakily drinking a glass of water. I make my way over and take her in my arms, kissing the top of her head.

“I’m so sorry you had to see that, Tweet. I’ve taken care of it, don’t worry,” I whisper.

Her arms snake around my waist and she presses into me tighter for a moment before letting go and stepping back.

“It’s Snowball, Mrs. Heckles’ cat. What am I going to say to her, Cal?” she asks in a heartbreakingly sad voice.