Chapter 2

The duvet was tossed to one side, as if someone had just gotten up.

I walked over and pressed my hand against the sheet. It was ice cold.

"Julian?" I called out, my voice barely a whisper, as if afraid to shatter the silence.

No answer.

I called again, louder this time. Still, only silence.

I turned and checked the bathroom. Empty.

The kitchen. Empty.

The balcony. Empty.

My apartment was tiny—barely six hundred square feet. You could see the whole place in one glance.

I stood in the middle of the living room, looking at the two detectives who had followed me in. Seeing the pity on their faces made me feel like a complete lunatic.

"Maybe he went out to buy groceries," I muttered.

Detective Carter didn't say a word. He just watched me.

I looked down at the coffee table.

Last night, I had brewed a mug of herbal tea for Julian. It was a dark, bitter home remedy to help him sleep. He had only drunk half of it, complaining it tasted like liquid dirt, so I left the mug on the table.

I had told him I would make him a fresh cup today.

But the mug was gone.

No, it wasn't just the mug.

My heart skipped a beat as I looked around. For the past week, the coffee table had been cluttered with ointment tubes, rolls of gauze, antiseptic wipes, and cotton swabs.

Julian’s wounds needed dressing every day. I had accumulated a small mountain of bloody bandages, which I kept in a trash bag by the door, intending to take it down to the dumpster.

Now, there was nothing.

The coffee table was sparkling clean.

The half-empty mug was gone. The gauze was gone. The trash bag by the door was gone.

No.

This was all wrong.

I stood there, my ears ringing. Something dark and terrifying was clawing its way up my throat, but I forced it down.

Detective Carter stepped closer to me. "Harper, are you alright?"

"He came back," I said, turning to him, emphasizing every single word. "He really came back. Last Wednesday night, he knocked on my door. He was covered in blood and bruises. I barely recognized him. He said he was trapped in a forced labor camp and spent three years trying to escape. I made him soup, I dressed his wounds, I held him for seven nights. I didn't dream this. It wasn't in my head. He was here."

Detective Carter was quiet for a long moment. "Then why didn't you call the police?"

I froze.

Why didn't I call the police?

Because Julian begged me not to.

"He said..." I scrambled to piece together the memories of that night. "He said the owners of the brick kiln had powerful connections. He said the local cops were paid off, and if we reported it, they’d just drag him back. He told me he just wanted to hide out for a while until the dust settled. He said having me was enough. He didn't want anyone else to know."

Detective Carter looked at me, his eyes filled with a complicated mixture of skepticism and concern.

"During these seven days, did anyone else see him?"

I thought about it. "No. He never left the apartment. Aside from my quick runs to the pharmacy and grocery store down the street, I stayed by his side the entire time."

"What about security cameras? Does your building have CCTV?"

"It’s an old building. The cameras in the lobby have been broken for years. Management never fixed them."

Detective Carter nodded slowly.

The younger officer next to him whispered, "Sir, this is getting a bit too..."

Detective Carter raised a hand, silencing him.

"Harper, come with us to the station first. Let's get the identification over with."

***