Thank you for your continued kind support. I appreciate it more than I could say.

Standard disclaimer.

Sam's eyes were on me, as he answered his phone.

"What's up, Stevie?"

It was his brother on the other line, and I wasn't sure if it was personal or cop-related.

"Shit! You serious?" Sam raised his free hand and scrubbed it through his hair, then dropped his hand. "That's not good."

I had no idea what was going on, so I turned and picked up his empty plate. Opening the dishwasher, I almost dropped said plate.

A pair of my undies was in the utensils holder, stuffed into the square cubby.

My hand shook as I stared at them.

They were...oh my God...they were the black lacy thongs, that I wished I'd worn last night.

How in the world did they end up in the dishwasher?

I hadn't opened the dishwasher since Sunday, if I remembered correctly. Yesterday, I hadn't used any dishes and I'd left the cup I'd used in the sink.

Shaken, I placed the plate inside, but I didn't grab the undies. I didn't even want to touch them.

Casper was haunting me, and he was a pervert.

If I'd placed them in there, having no recollection, I needed to get an X-ray of my head. Maybe I needed to take San up on that séance idea.

"Yeah."

Sam's voice startled me.

"I can do that. Talk to you soon," he finished.

Closing the dishwasher, I left the undies inside. The last thing I wanted to do, was whip them out. I had enough explaining to do, than try to explain that.

Turning around, I caught the tail end of Sam, pulling a shirt out of his duffel bag and slipping it on over his head.

He wasn't looking at me, when he buttoned up his tactical pants.

"Is everything okay with your brother?" I asked.

He lifted his head, as he straightened out his shirt. His handsome face was blank...devoid of all emotion, as his clear green eyes met mine.

"Yeah. Everything is cool."

The knot in my throat expanded at his apathetic tone. I opened my mouth, but he turned away.

"Look, I've got to go," he said, heading down my hallway.

For a moment, I was absolutely rooted to the floor.

It took me a few seconds to realize, he was leaving and we hadn't finished our conversation.

Springing into action, I hurried after Sam, finding him in my bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on his socks and boots.

All I could see, was the rumpled sheets and comforter, the indents in the two pillows and the shirt he wore last night, the one he'd used to clean me up, in a messy ball on the floor.

My heart was pounding so fast, I was afraid it would burst like a balloon, stretched to its limits.

"You really have to leave? Right now?" I asked.

"Yes." Tying up his boots, he rose to his full height, a good two heads taller than me. "I've got to go let Stevie's dog out."

I silently mouthed the words back, because, I almost couldn't believe that's why he had to leave. I mean, I didn't want the doggie to go potty anywhere inappropriate, but we so needed to finish our discussion.

"He can't...he can't wait for a little while?" I asked.

"It's a she," he replied, bending down and grabbing his used shirt. "Her name is Lacey, and no, it can't wait."

My chest clenched, as he straightened once again and then stepped around me.

The back of my eyes burned, as he left the bedroom and I was left staring at the bed, thinking that this morning together, had happened years ago.

Wheeling around, I followed Sam out to the living room. He already had his duffel bag in hand and had pulled on a black baseball cap. It was pulled down low, shielding his eyes.

"Sam...I..." Words left me, as he opened the front door. "Are we okay?"

The muscles under his white shirt rolled, as if he was working out a kink in his shoulders and then he faced me.

The sculpted line of his jaw was as sharp as a blade.

"Yeah," he replied in that same flat tone. "We're okay."

I didn't believe him, not for one second. And that ball was at the back of my mouth now and I blinked several times. I couldn't speak, because if I did, the ball would come out.

Sam looked away, his jaw working.

"I'll call you, Mercedes."

He started out the door and then stopped. In that tiny second, hope kindled to life, like a match dropped on a pool of gasoline.

"Make sure you lock this door," he said.

And then he was gone.

I exhaled roughly, as I gripped the door and watched as he hung a right at the sidewalk, disappearing from my view.

Numb, I closed the door and locked it. And then I stepped back.

My cheeks were damp.

Hands shaking, I pushed my glasses onto the top of my head and then pressed my palms against my eyes.

Oh God, this had gone as bad, as it possibly could've gone.

Shuffling over to the couch, I plopped down and I lowered my hands.

"Oh God," I whispered.

I knew he'd be mad and I had been terrified that he'd hate me for lying. After all, that knowledge was what made it so hard for me to tell him, once we started talking again.

But after last night...after this morning...I didn't think he'd walk out. I got that he'd still be upset, but...I don't know what I thought.

Tears tracked down my cheeks, and I dragged in a breath. It got stuck on a sob. This was not good, but it was my fault. This was my fault.

"Stop crying," I told myself.

It felt like two hundred pounds had settled on my chest, and I replayed what he'd said as he left.

He said we were okay. He said he would call me.

And Sam didn't lie.

Not like me.

I didn't hear from Sam the rest of Tuesday.

I didn't paint...didn't even step foot in my studio. All I did, was lie on my couch like a steaming pile of crap, staring at my phone, willing it to ring, or for a text message to come through.

Sam didn't call or text me on Wednesday, either.

And again, I didn't go into the studio at all, and the only reason I pulled my ass off the couch, was because I had to go to work.

I would've called in, if it hadn't been for the windshield I'd broken. Yet another bad decision I'd made, that I was literally and figuratively paying for.

Working at Marcy's Wednesday sucked moose balls.

A steady throbbing pain moved from my temples to my eyes, and then back to my temples.

My eyes were swollen, and I told myself it was allergies. I also told Ryder, that was why I looked like crap, when he asked me why I looked like shit.

But that was a lie.

When I woke up this morning, I could still smell Sam's cologne on my sheets and I cried like I had, when I'd found out he was dating Quinn Fabray, a perfect blonde tennis player he'd met, within a handful of months of moving to town.

Except, then, I had Kurt to ply me with ice-cream and stupid horror flicks, to get me through what had felt like the end of the world.

I kept telling myself back then, the tears were probably for the loss of a friendship, more than the potential of what we could've become.

I had never let myself truly consider a future with Sam, so the tears couldn't be because of that.

They couldn't be now, either.

Halfway through the night, Brody 'the Beast' Wesson, showed up without his usual entourage of girls, or muscle-bound guys.

He was kind of a big deal around these parts, as an up-and-coming UFC fighter, who trained out of Philly.

I had no idea how he and Ryder knew each other, then again, Ryder seemed to know everyone.

A little bit shorter than Ryder, with a body that showed he spent hours in the gym every day, Brody was a hottie.

He had dark brown, spiky hair and skin that reminded me of sun-baked clay. There was an edgy look about him, that was super intimidating, for people who didn't know him, but he'd always been low-key and kind, every time I'd been around him.

Brody took a seat at the bar, giving me a wink, as Ryder strolled up to him.

Immediately, it was bromance time between the boys. I wasn't really paying attention to them, but since it was a Wednesday night and only the regulars were in the bar and the music was off, I couldn't help overhearing their conversation.

At first, it was nothing major, just information about an upcoming cage death-match and something about a sponsorship deal, that Ryder looked like he was going to have an orgasm over.

But then the subject changed.

"Man, today has been fucking sick," Brody said, tipping the bottle back and taking a drink. "One of the girls who works in the office, at the club where I train, wasn't at work yesterday. Coach Bieste said she was a no call, no show but..."

He shook his head, his dark brown eyes glinting with anger.

"Some sick ass got ahold of her," he finished.

I stopped, clutching the cloth I was using to wipe down the higher end liquor bottles on display. Ryder cocked his head to the side and asked,

"What happened?"

"Some fucker broke into her apartment and messed her up pretty badly, from what I hear." His empty hand closed into a dangerous fist. "Man, I cannot even wrap my head around how a man could hurt a female. I just don't understand that."

"Jesus." Ryder shook his head. "This is what...the third incident in a month or so?"

"There was that girl that disappeared at the beginning of summer," I said and walked over to where they were, dropping the cloth on the counter. "I think her name was Kelly or something like that."

Brody nodded.

"I'm not a cop or a psychologist, but it sounds like we got a psycho around here."

I folded my arms against the shiver, that danced up my spine.

My thoughts wandered to the strange things in my house, and I stiffened.

It sounded crazy, to even think what was happening there, had anything to do with these poor girls. Plus it didn't make sense.

How would anyone get in my house, to do those things without me knowing about it?

But still, I had to ask.

"Do you know if the girls were stalked or anything? Like any warnings?"

"I haven't heard," Ryder answered, angling his body towards mine. He arched a brow. "I bet Sam would know though."

Oh! Like a kick in the stomach, those words twisted up my insides. And I didn't know how to respond to that.

Last Ryder knew, which was just a few days ago, things were on the up and up between Sam and I. Now, I wasn't so sure.

"I'll tell you what, though. Whoever this guy is, he's a dead man." Brody's lips curved into a smirk. "The girl who works in our office. She's Artie's cousin."

"Holy shit," muttered Ryder.

My sentiments exactly.

Artie was sort of infamous around these parts.

To outsiders, he appeared like a legit businessman, but all the locals, including the police, knew he was much more than that.

He ran Philadelphia and all the surrounding towns and cities. To put it simply, he was not a man to mess with, and he was smart about his under-the-table dealings, because law enforcement could never pin anything on him.

It was him who Marley's mom had stolen drugs from, to the tune of millions of dollars' worth of heroin. And because of how far reaching and powerful he was, Marley's mom wasn't even living in this time zone anymore. The only way for her to stay alive was to disappear.

But Artie had a code of ethics.

One of his boys had gone after Marley, since he was the one who was supposed to be handling her mother.

And Artie hadn't been cool with that, since Marley was innocent in all of this.

No one could prove it, but when the guy's body was found on a back road, with a bullet in his head, everyone knew it had Artie written all over it.

Even though his boys hung out in here, I'd only seen him a few times. Once every blue moon, he strolled into the bar, and he always left amazing tips.

"Yep. So not only are the police looking for this fucker, so will Artie's boys, and this guy better hope the police find him first, or the inside of a trunk, is the last thing he's ever gonna see," Brody said.

He leaned back, crossing massive arms across his broad chest. One shoulder rose.

"Then again, I kind of hope Artie does find him first," he ended.

It might make me a bad person, but I sort of hoped the same thing.

Brody hung out to the end of the shift and the boys walked me out to my car.

There was still no sign of Sam, not a single missed call or text and the hurting I'd been carrying with me during the twenty-four hours, turned to bitter-tasting panic.

Before everything had gone to shit Tuesday morning, he'd told me he wanted to have lunch and when he left, he said we were okay and that he would call.

A tiny part of me was holding out for Thursday afternoon.

Sam would call. We would have lunch. He wasn't a dick. Never had been, so I knew he wouldn't bail on me like that.

The street outside the Victorian was quiet and there was a chill in the night air, as I walked up the pathway to the porch.

I could almost feel Autumn, which wasn't too far away. After such a long and hot summer, I couldn't wait for it.

Opening the door, I stepped inside my dark apartment and closed the door behind me.

I don't know why, but as soon as the lock clicked into place, goose bumps raced over my flesh.

Icy fingers trailed down my spine, and I froze, as I stared into the dark recesses of my apartment.

The distinct feeling of not being alone surrounded me and tiny hairs rose all over my body.

My chest rose and fell rapidly as I stood there. Maybe I should've said something to the guys about the weird stuff happening in my apartment.

If I had, they would've demanded to come home with me, but it had seemed too foolish to mention...too weird and un-explainable.

Now, I thought I might have a heart attack.

Blindly, I reached out, my fingers brushing the shade of the lamp, before finding the tiny switch.

I flipped the light on and a soft glow spread across the living room, but the shadows seemed to have darkened everywhere else.

Reaching into my purse, I wrapped my hand around my cell phone and pulled it out.

Quietly, I inched forward, placing my purse on the recliner and I kept holding onto my phone, as I went into the kitchen, and turned on the lights.

There was nothing out of place.

I opened up the dishwasher, half expecting to find a bra-and-panty set stuffed in there, and my breath hitched in my throat, as my ears strained to hear sounds.

Something...a faint sound, came from the back of the house, where my bedrooms were. The sound of a door shutting softly? I wasn't sure.

I spun around, heart racing, as fear tiptoed over my skin.

Had I actually heard a door closing?

Or was it just my imagination?

At this point, I couldn't be sure, but I grabbed a huge-ass psycho butcher knife out of its block, with the intent of using it if I had to.

Taking a deep breath, I made my way through the entire apartment.

Nothing was out of the ordinary, no doors open when they shouldn't be or vice versa, and with all the lights on...even the bathroom's, I plopped down on the bed, sighing.

I really needed to go to the local church and order an exorcism.

Glancing down at the scary knife I still held, I sat it on the bed beside me and then I looked at the phone.

I could totally text Sam and tell him I thought I heard something in my apartment. He would come over, and it wouldn't be a lie, but...

But it wouldn't be right.

That was like reaching a whole new level of desperation, and I wasn't to that point...yet.

I didn't get much sleep.

Weirded out by the way my apartment felt, when I entered and everything else that had been going on, I woke up every hour, until the sun rose and then, I finally gave up.

At the butt crack of dawn, I found myself in my studio.

The Jackson Square painting forgotten, I stared at a blank piece of canvas and then I grabbed my paintbrush.

There wasn't any thought behind what I was doing. My hand had a mind of its own. I was on autopilot.

Hours passed, and my back and neck ached, from sitting so long, in virtually the same position.

Rubbing the cramp in my lower back, I leaned back on the stool and tilted my head to the side, to look at what I had painted.

"Fuck me," I muttered.

The background of the painting was the robin's egg blue of my kitchen walls and the bright white of the cabinets. No big deal there, but it was what was in the center of the painting, that made me want to get a lobotomy.

The skin tone had been hard to capture, mixing browns and pinks and yellows together, until I got as close as I could to the golden tone.

The shoulders had been easy to shape on the canvas, but shading the contoured muscles, had been the hardest.

My wrist didn't appreciate all the hard work it had taken, to get the right curve of his spine, or the corded muscles on either side.

The black pants had been the easiest.

I'd painted Sam like I had seen him in the kitchen, Tuesday morning.

Squeezing my eyes shut, it did nothing to ease the burn in them, or stop the tears from building.

Frustration rose in me.

I knew without looking at my phone, that it was past ten in the morning. That knowledge made my chest ache and my stomach feel wrong, like I'd eaten too much.

I couldn't wait any longer. I'd waited two days.

Dropping the paintbrush on the stand, I hopped up and went to my phone.

Without thinking too much about it, without stressing myself out any longer, I typed Sam a quick text.

I miss you.

God, that was so bizarrely true.

I went almost a year not speaking to him and I had missed him during that time, but that want, had been cloaked in bitterness and anger. With that gone, all that remained, was how much I missed him.

I deleted that and typed,

Are we still on for today?

Then, I also backspaced the mother out of that and finally settled on,

Hey.

Bringing my phone into the bedroom, I took a quick shower and blow-dried my hair. I even curled lazy waves into it and put makeup on, so I'd be ready just in case...

Then, I paced my living room and kitchen, too wired to sit down, and with each passing minute, that frustration and panic pecked away at me.

Twelve o'clock dragged into one and then two and when I had only thirty minutes left to get ready for my shift and realized there was no text or call, that teeny, tiny spark of hope, that I'd been holding close to my heart, extinguished.

Sam had lied to me.

For the first time since I'd known him, he had lied to me.

Because, I knew in that moment, he wasn't going to call me.

Everything between us wasn't okay.

Stay safe!