Talk To Me

Chapter Thirteen

Present

The automatic stairwell light flickered, clicking on and off in a steady, mechanical rhythm. Oliver barely noticed it, too focused on the dark, gaping entrance to Cassie's apartment. His knee twitched from holding his stance too long, his body strung tight with tension. Beside him, Mark stood rigid, staring at the open doorway like it might swallow them whole.

Mark finally broke the silence, gripping Oliver's shoulder. "I don't think we should go in." His green eyes were wide, searching Oliver's face for any hesitation.

Oliver shrugged off his hand. "Why not?" His brows furrowed.

Mark exhaled sharply. "Imagine waking up in the middle of the night to find two guys standing in your apartment." He raised a pointed eyebrow.

Oliver's jaw clenched. "It's for Leah, Mark. We have to find out what the fuck happened. And apparently—" he gestured to the open doorway, "this is our answer."

"This is breaking and entering," Mark muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "I can't get arrested again."

Oliver smirked. "Then stay out here." His voice was edged with finality. "Technically, I'm a tenant in this apartment. And besides, it's too late now." Without another word, he stepped inside.

Mark lingered for a second longer before muttering a curse under his breath and following.

The narrow corridor was pitch black, the stale air thick with the faint scent of vanilla. With six long strides, Oliver reached the archway leading to the living room. He felt along the wall, fingers skimming cool plaster until they found the switch. The chandelier above flickered on, its dim light exposing every untouched corner.

Everything seemed unchanged. The gray U-shaped couch sat exactly where it always had, facing the massive windows. A table rested in front of it, and the TV stand stood empty against the glass. But something felt off. A subtle emptiness. More missing personal items than he remembered. A quiet absence that made his skin prickle.

Mark moved past him, stepping fully into the room. "What do you mean you're technically a tenant?" His voice was skeptical as he studied Oliver's face.

Oliver exhaled, his fingers tightening into fists. "I don't have the energy for this shit, Mark." His voice was low, shaky. His gray eyes darted around, scanning for anything—any clue—to explain the unease crawling up his spine.

Mark wasn't letting it go. "Don't dodge my question, Oli." He grabbed Oliver's shoulder, forcing him to face him.

Oliver gritted his teeth. "I paid the rent, okay?"

Mark froze. His right hand slipped into his jeans pocket, his gaze darkening. He scanned the apartment again, his eyes landing on a withering hibiscus plant on the windowsill. Its leaves were spotted brown, its dried blooms hanging limp.

His head turned slowly, his stare falling on the bookshelf. Leah's books were still there.

"Why is Leah's stuff still here, Oli?" Mark's voice was quieter now, but sharper.

"I told you. I paid the rent," Oliver muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

"And left everything here?" Mark motioned toward the room with an incredulous scoff. "Seriously?"

"I was busy," Oliver mumbled.

Mark let out a humorless laugh. "Doing what, exactly?" He crossed his arms. "Apart from the waitress?"

"Not the time, Mark." Oliver's jaw tightened as he shot him a glare. "Look at the apartment."

"I did," Mark snapped. "And all I see is Leah's stuff."