Andrew Graves

The apartment was eerily quiet.

It had been for a couple weeks now, not that Andrew minded. He didn’t have to deal with his shitty family anymore—no more of his so-called mother yelling at him for not keeping his 20-year-old sister Ashley out of trouble (and just being a piece of shit in general), no more of his so-called father sitting back and watching the abuse happen like the spineless coward he was, and no more Ashley ruining his life just to spend time with him and hating every woman who so much as breathed near him and making disgusting jokes about the two of them having sex together. They were finally dead, and he couldn’t be happier.

Andrew sat by the window, his cheek resting against the peeling sill, green eyes locked on the apartment across the hall. Your apartment. His heart fluttered every time he thought of you.

You always left your curtains cracked. A soft habit, maybe, or maybe you just liked the moonlight, same as him. He’d memorized the way it washed over you—how it kissed the side of your face when you curled up to read, how it shimmered in your hair when she laughed over the phone.

God, your laugh. It sounded nothing like Leyley’s shrieking cackle. It was warm. Sweet. Alive.

He pressed his nails harder into his palm, a red crescent forming. Alive. You were still alive. And safe. He made sure of that.

The world had been so loud before you. Ugly, twisted, filled with all the wrong people. But you . . . you were light. And he had given up everything for you.

He whispered her name like a prayer, a smile on his lips. “I made room for you.”

He turned from the window slowly, the walls behind him still streaked faintly with dried blood. The apartment was cleaner now. Presentable. He’d even disposed of the bodies.

There was one spot left at the dinner table. Candles flickered. A single plate, neatly set. Roses in a chipped vase.

He tilted his head.

“Do you think they’ll be scared?” he muttered to himself, voice low but giddy (and somewhat anxious). “No, no . . . they’re different. They see me. They always smiled. Even when I was covered in bruises. They smiled . . .”

His eyes flicked back to the door. Just across the hall. Just a knock away. His heart pounded.

Tonight felt right.

He stood up slowly, picked up the little locket he’d stolen from her laundry once—it had a picture of you and your mom in it. He pressed it to his lips. “I’ll make them understand. I have to.”

Then he crossed the room, turned the knob, and stepped into the hallway, eyes fixed on the number across from him.

Apartment 5B. Your apartment.