Page 147 of Burning Embers

My hatred for him grows.

Now, I just need to find proof, and then I can show it to my father and the other Council members.

Or I’ll just kill him myself.

Grayson remains in his apartment for another hour—the most awkward and uncomfortable hour of my life, while I remain crouched near the end of the hallway, hiding behind a potted plant like some fucking creeper—before he finally leaves.

I heave out a breath as I watch the large, intimidating man move towards the stairs. I wait another fifteen minutes, ensuring he’s gone for good, before I slink out of my piss-poor hiding spot and hurry towards his door.

Belatedly, I realize this is fucking insanity. I shouldn’t break in to some murderer’s apartment on my own, yet I can’t find it within me to care. Who the hell would I even tell? Ethan? The mere thought is laughable.

No, I can’t tell my packmates. They would insist on coming with me, and I don’t need them. Not now. Not ever.

I can do this one job on my own.

I grab my credit card out of my wallet and then slide it through the door crack, attempting to catch it on the latch. It only takes a few tries for the lock to click, and I quickly push the door open and step inside.

The apartment is tiny and sparsely furnished. If I hadn’t seen Grayson enter and exit this place for over a week, I would’ve assumed that no one lives here. Yes, there’s furniture, but it’s the type of furniture you’ll see in a staged home, not that of a teenager. There’s only a bed and a nightstand. Not even a fucking TV.

What nineteen-year-old doesn’t have a fucking TV?

I check the nightstand first, though I don’t expect to actually find anything there. That would be too simple, and Grayson appears to be anything but. I don’t even know what the hell I’m looking for.

Body parts?

A diary where he goes into extensive detail about his murders?

Photographs?

I move from the nightstand to the bed, then the bed to the kitchen. The fridge is full of pizza boxes, beers, and fast-food bags. The cupboards are nearly empty. I even check the goddamn oven.

Once I’m confident there are no hidden secrets in the kitchen, I move on to the bathroom. This appears to be the most lived-in part of the house, with a toothbrush and toothpaste near the sink, a razor blade, a comb, a tube of deodorant, and shampoo and body wash in the shower.

But no damning evidence.

The only place I haven’t checked yet is the closet, though I feel as if Grayson is too smart to hide something there. After all, evil mastermindsalwaysplace things underneath some floorboards in the closet. It’s in the rule book.

And Grayson doesn’t strike me as the type of guy to play by the rules.

I’ve just placed my hand on the doorknob when footsteps sound from directly outside the apartment.

I freeze, every muscle in my body locking together.

Fuck.

Desperation fueling my movements, I dive towards the bed and stealthily roll underneath it, trying to ignore the feel of dust and other unsavory substances clinging to my skin. A cough bubbles in my throat, but sheer determination keeps it contained.

The door to the apartment clicks open, and Grayson steps inside. I can’t see what he’s doing, but his footsteps head in the direction of the bathroom.

If he’s taking a piss, then maybe I’ll be able to escape. I just need to be quiet and fast?—

But I don’t hear the telltale thunk of the door shutting.

Grayson shuffles around in the bathroom for a few moments, and I shift slightly so I can see out from underneath the bed.

What the fuck is he doing?

His back is to me, but he stands in the entryway of the bathroom, fixated on the mirrored medicine cabinet. I try to recall what’s in there, but I think it’s only a few toiletries. Certainly not anything interesting enough to capture his attention.