63

63
  For a long time after the door slammed shut, Delia didn’t move.
  The silence that followed wasn’t comforting—it was suffocating. Her body trembled uncontrollably, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. The cold air stung her lungs.
  Finally, when the adrenaline began to fade just enough to let fear settle into exhaustion, she forced herself to move.
  Slowly, carefully, she straightened up, every muscle in her back stiff from crouching. Her knees ached, and her belly felt tight with the strain. The baby shifted inside her, restless, as if sensing her distress.
  “It’s okay,” she whispered hoarsely. “We’re okay.”
  But even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t true.
  The apartment beyond the glass looked unchanged—eerily still, like a stage after a violent play had ended. The door was still ajar from where the men had half-opened it. Every instinct screamed at her to stay hidden. But another, louder voice—curiosity, desperation—pushed her forward. She had to know what had happened.
  Delia eased the door open wider, flinching at the soft creak. The living room was dim, the curtains drawn halfway. A faint smell lingered in the air—gunpowder, oil, and something else. Something metallic.
  Blood.
  Her stomach lurched, but she pushed forward, barefoot and silent, her heart hammering painfully. There was a dark smear across the floor near the door, streaked as though someone had dragged something—or someone—away.
  “Frank?” she whispered, her voice breaking.
  No answer.
  She moved slowly, her gaze sweeping across the room. A chair had been knocked over, one of the coffee mugs shattered on the floor. Papers from the counter had scattered across the tiles, one of them spotted with red.
  The trail of blood led toward the hallway.
  Delia hesitated, her breath shallow. Part of her wanted to turn around, grab her bag, and run until her legs gave out. But another part—the part that needed to understand what was happening—wouldn’t let her leave.
  She followed the trail, her bare feet whispering against the floor.
  The hallway was darker, the shadows stretching long and warped. The blood streak ended at the door to Frank’s bedroom—slightly ajar. She nudged it open with shaking fingers.
  The room looked as it had before: perfectly neat, controlled, untouched. Except now, the desk drawer hung open, papers scattered like someone had rifled through them in haste. And on the floor beside the bed—something glinted faintly in the sliver of morning light.
  A shell casing.
  Her breath hitched. The gunshot hadn’t been outside. It had been here. Inside.
  Delia crouched, though her hands trembled too much to pick it up. The realization hit like a weight to the chest. Whoever those men were, they hadn’t found Frank—but they’d been looking for something.
  Her gaze darted around the room again, landing on the wardrobe—the same one where she’d found the folder. The shirts were disturbed now, some half-hanging from their hangers. The folder was gone.
  A chill rolled through her. They’d found it.
  Her pulse quickened. That meant they knew someone else had been here. And if they came back…
  A sound snapped her attention to the front door. A faint metallic click.
  Someone unlocking it.
  Panic surged through her veins. Not again.
  Delia backed away instinctively, her hand flying to her stomach. She scanned the room for somewhere—anywhere—to hide. The wardrobe was too obvious. The bed too low.
  The window.
  She rushed to it, fingers fumbling with the latch. It was stiff, jammed halfway, but she forced it open enough to squeeze through. The cool morning air hit her face like a slap. She climbed out onto the narrow ledge beyond, gripping the sill as tightly as she could.
  The door opened.
  Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate.
  A voice—calm, composed, familiar.
  “Delia.”
  Her blood froze.
  Frank.
  He stepped into the bedroom, the faint light catching the hard lines of his face. There was something different in his eyes this time—colder, sharper. His jacket was gone, his shirt faintly rumpled. A faint smear of blood stained his sleeve.
  “You shouldn’t be up,” he said quietly, his tone unreadable. “You need to rest.”
  Delia couldn’t speak. Her fingers gripped the window frame so tightly her knuckles burned. He looked alive—but the blood… the shell casing…
  “Frank,” she managed, her voice trembling. “What happened? Who were they?”
  He studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then—slowly—he smiled.
  “People who shouldn’t have found us,” he said. “But don’t worry, Delia.”
  He stepped closer to the window, his eyes never leaving hers.
  “I took care of it.”