ADRIAN
Katrina insisted on cooking soup for dinner, something “light and comforting,” as she put it. I stayed in my room while she worked in the kitchen, the door cracked open just enough for me to hear everything.
My guard was up. Every sound. Every footstep. Every shift in her tone. I wasn’t letting anything slip past me again.
She turned on soft music in the living room, something slow and calming, like she wanted to lull me into a sense of safety.
“Rest for a bit,” she called out. “I’ll let you know when the food is ready.”
I didn’t answer. I lay on the bed, eyes open, listening then slowly got up and hid myself in the corner enough to see what she's doing. A drawer opened. Not one of the usual ones. A hidden one. Metal clicked softly — the unmistakable sound of a phone being unl
