She didn't open the wallet until she got home.
Her apartment felt too quiet, like it was holding its breath. Rhoda locked the door, then locked it again. She leaned against it, heart racing, and laughed once—sharp and brittle.
"This is stupid," she told the empty room.
The wallet sat on her kitchen table like a sleeping animal.
She opened it.
Inside were a few crumpled bills. A transit card. A folded receipt from a hardware store.
And a driver's license.
The photo showed the same thing the voice had hinted at: young. Maybe early-thirties. Dark eyes that looked almost bored staring into the camera. No smile.
Name: Evan Mercer.
The address was local.
Rhoda's stomach twisted.
She snapped the wallet shut.
She should call the police. Right now. She even picked up her phone.
Her thumb hovered over the screen. It was so hot and suffocating she needed a drink. Rhoda went into her kitchen with her phone in her hand, the emergency number already pulled up.
All she had to do was press one button.
Her heart hammered so hard she felt it in her throat. She drew in a breath—
"You're an easy girl to track down, Rhoda."
The voice came from behind her.
Not raised.
Not hurried.
Close.
Her body reacted before her mind could. Every muscle locked. Her fingers went numb, and the phone slipped from her grasp, clattering against the counter and skidding across the floor.
She didn't turn.
She couldn't.
Her brain refused to reconcile the fact that someone was inside her apartment — not at the door, not outside a window, but standing in the space she occupied everyday, breathing the same air.
The voice. The same velvet-wrapped blade from the bank.
He stepped around her, and Rhoda saw him up close. Her brain stalled. He wasn't just handsome; he was a biological error. No one who did what he did was allowed to look like that.
He was wearing a black silk shirt, the fabric expensive and thin, with the top four buttons undone. It hung loose on a frame that was all jagged muscle and raw power. The open collar revealed the hard line of his collarbone and a glimpse of a tattoo that disappeared into the dark hair of his chest. His face was a masterpiece of cruelty—high, sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, and eyes so dark they looked like ink.
He looked less like a robber and more like a god who had fallen into the gutter and decided he liked it there.
"How did you get in?" she whispered, her gaze unwillingly dropping to the exposed skin of his chest.
"Your bathroom window," he said, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped closer. He didn't rush. He moved with the slow, agonizing confidence of a man who knew there was no escape. "Second-floor units always leave their windows open."
" I didn't hear anything."
"No," he agreed. "You wouldn't have."
He was inches away now. The scent of him hit her—rain, expensive tobacco, and a sharp, metallic tang of adrenaline. He leaned down, his face hovering just above hers. The heat coming off him was a physical weight.
"The wallet, Rhoda."
Her hand trembled as she reached for the table. She felt his gaze burning a path down her throat. She wasn't just afraid; she was electrified. Every nerve ending she possessed was screaming.
"You're shaking," he murmured, his thumb catching her chin and forcing her to look up. His touch was electric, a searing heat that made her knees weak. He took a step closer.
Rhoda backed up instinctively until the counter pressed hard into her spine. There was nowhere else to go.
"This was a mistake," she said, forcing the words out. "I was going to—"
"Call the police," he finished. "You were thinking about it."
Her breath stuttered.
"You robbed a bank," she said. "You think breaking into my apartment scares me more than that?"
His eyes hardened — not angry, just focused.
"Yes," he said. "Because the bank wasn't personal."
He leaned in slightly. "In the bank, you were one of many. On the floor. Anonymous. Safe, as long as you followed instructions."
His gaze dropped to her pocket.
"You stopped being safe when you picked something up that didn't belong to you."
Her hand curled unconsciously over the wallet.
"I could kill you," he continued quietly. "Not because I want to. Because it would be easy. You live alone. No cameras in this hallway. No one would question a robbery gone wrong."
Rhoda's vision blurred at the edges.
"But I won't," he said. "Because dead people make noise."
She sucked in a breath, a small, broken sound she couldn't stop.
"That's the difference between fear and danger," he went on. "You were afraid at the bank. Right now, you're in danger."
Silence swallowed the room.
Finally, she nodded — once.
Her fingers trembled as she held the wallet out with both hands, like an offering.
He took it, his fingers brushing hers for the briefest moment.
The contact burned.
He didn't open it. Didn't check it. He already knew it was intact.
As he stepped back, Rhoda slid down the cabinet until she was sitting on the floor, breath coming too fast.
At the doorway, he paused.
"You should forget my face," he said. "Forget my name. Forget tonight."
He glanced back at her, eyes cold and assessing.
"But you won't."
Then he was gone — leaving behind a silence that felt violent in its own way.
Rhoda stayed on the kitchen floor long after, staring at the dark hallway, knowing one thing with terrifying clarity:
Her apartment was no longer a place she trusted.