CHAPTER 8
For someone who was such a homebody, it should’ve been more comforting to, actually, you know, come home.
But it isn’t anymore, Delaney thought, approaching her second-floor apartment (second-floor because it was too high to be broken-into from the street level, but not so high it could be broken-into from the roof). She had her keys ready, her purse pinned to her side.
Turning the corner from the elevator bank, she kept her pace even as she studied the stairwell entrance at the hallway’s end (three doors down because she’d never have another apartment directly adjacent to the stairwell again). There weren’t any waiting shadows behind the artistically-hazy window at the top of the door—nor any shadows moving in the space between the door and the carpeted floor. She was alone.
