Chapter 2 - The Apartment on Oakridge
The apartment on Oakridge Lane was not what Emily expected.
She had pictured a dark, dusty basement unit with yellowing linoleum and the smell of boiled cabbage—the kind of place a man with torn jeans and twenty dollars in his pocket could afford on an assistant's salary in Pasadena.
Instead, 1402 Oakridge Lane was a low-slung, mid-century modern complex hidden behind a thick wall of white oleander and mature bougainvillea. The gravel driveway was swept clean, and the air smelled of cedar needles and lemon blossoms.
Adrian parked his rusted silver Subaru in spot 'B' beneath a wooden carport.
"It's not much," he said, stepping out and walking around to her Honda to help with her suitcase.
"It looks expensive," Emily said, looking up at the broad glass windows on the second floor.
"The landlord is an old friend of my father's," Adrian said quickly, lifting her heavy navy-blue suitcase out of the trunk with one hand as if it weighed nothing at all. "He gives me a discount on the rent in exchange for doing the building's accounting on weekends."
He led her up a set of exterior floating concrete stairs to a dark oak door marked 2B.
He unlocked it with the steel key, pushed the door open, and stepped aside.
"After you," he said.
Emily stepped across the threshold and stopped.
The apartment was large, open, and flooded with soft, indirect northern light from a row of floor-to-ceiling glass doors that opened onto a private terrace. The floors were polished dark concrete. The furniture was minimal—a low, deep grey fabric sofa, a single slab of raw oak functioning as a coffee table, and a stainless-steel kitchen island that looked cleaner than a surgical suite.
There were no personal photographs on the walls. No framed diplomas. No sports memorabilia.
The only art in the room was a massive, frameless canvas leaning against the far wall—an abstract composition of dark slate grey, indigo, and faint streaks of white chalk.
"You like art?" Emily asked, taking two steps toward the canvas.
"It came with the place," Adrian said, setting her suitcase down near a short hallway to the right. "The second bedroom is down there. It has its own bathroom. There are clean towels in the closet. The kitchen is fully stocked—help yourself to whatever is in the fridge."
He walked over to a built-in wooden wardrobe near the front door, opened it, and pulled out a fresh, unwrinkled white dress shirt hanging on a wooden hanger.
He unbuttoned his torn, stained shirt without hesitation.
Emily instinctively turned her head toward the terrace, her face suddenly burning hot.
"Sorry," Adrian’s voice came from behind her, smooth and unruffled. "I forgot my manners."
"It's fine," Emily muttered to the glass door.
Through her peripheral vision, she couldn't help but notice the broad, muscular expanse of his back as he pulled the fresh shirt over his shoulders. His skin was pale, but across his left shoulder blade ran a thick, raised pale scar about four inches long—an old injury, well-heeled, but deep enough to have required dozens of stitches.
He buttoned the white shirt quickly, tucked the hem into his jeans, and reached for a dark blue silk tie hanging on a hook inside the wardrobe.
"You wear a tie for office paperwork?" Emily asked, turning back around as he knotted the silk deftly at his throat.
"My supervisor is old-fashioned," Adrian said. He reached for a grey tweed blazer resting on a chair, pulled it on, and suddenly looked entirely different.
The worn jeans were still there, but from the waist up, he looked like a young partner at a high-end law firm. The sharp jaw, the calm grey eyes, the precise movement of his hands as he adjusted his cuffs—it all clicked into a picture that didn't match the man she had found bleeding near a parking garage three hours ago.
"I have to go to the office," Adrian said, checking a plain black digital watch on his wrist. "I'll be back around eight. Will you be okay here?"
Emily looked around the quiet, sunlit apartment. For the first time in six months, her phone wasn't ringing with angry demands from Valerie. There were no footsteps in the hallway outside her door. There was no dread waiting for her in the kitchen.
"I'll be fine," she said softly.
Adrian walked to the front door, his hand resting on the brass handle. He paused, turning his head to look back at her.
"Emily?"
"Yes?"
"Don't answer the door for anyone you don't know," he said. His voice was quiet, but there was a hard, immovable weight beneath it. "If anyone comes here claiming to be from Carter Textiles or Vance Logistics... don't open it. Call me immediately."
"I don't have your number," she reminded him.
Adrian reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a plain white business card, and laid it on the kitchen island.
"My direct line is on the back," he said. "I'll see you at eight."
The door opened and closed with a soft, solid click.
Emily stood alone in the center of the quiet room for a long minute.
She walked over to the kitchen island and picked up the white business card.
There was no company name printed on the front. No logo. No title.
Only a name in dark black serif font:
ADRIAN SHAW
And on the back, written in precise, dark blue fountain pen ink:
310-555-0192 (Direct)
May you like
Emily turned the card over in her fingers. The paper was heavy—at least 130-pound cotton stock—with a subtle, textured weave that felt like silk under her thumb.
"Just office paperwork," Emily whispered to herself, setting the card back down. "Right."
