Cold-blooded killer

After being without a car last week, Friday was a welcome return to independence. It also meant that I didn't have to get up for work at dawn to grab a ride with the beau. While he had to go in for an early shift (hello, 4 am!), I was able to sleep in until a lovely 7 am. Driving myself to and from work is one of those little luxuries that I definitely take for granted.

Cue Friday at 4: a very cold quittin' time. After parking in my spot (a blockish away from our place - thanks, east side!), I stepped out into the bitter lakeside wind, and muttered frozen profanities as I walked to our apartment. All I could think about was how wonderful our sweltering apartment was going to be. Living in what used to be a hotel back in the 20s, we're #blessed with radiator heat. AKA our heat is free... and beyond anyone's control... and we live in the tropics approximately 11 months of the year (or, well, in the winter more desert than jungle). As I stumbled blindly, eyes watering from the icy breeze, my one saving grace was that I would soon nestle up in that blistering heat. The thought  kept me going as I waited for traffic to clear so I could cross towards home.

Entering the lobby, my numb hands wiped the streaky mascara across my cheeks. Opening the mail slot, I found nothing, which meant the beau had beat me home, per usual. I made my way down our hallway (reminiscent of the Shining, minus the twins at the end of the hall - usually), deciding that I would not leave the warmth again until forced out at gunpoint. I dashed around the cat-lady on our floor and rushed away from her attempt to trap me in conversation (she uses the WTFuck-is-this-cat-doing-in-the-hallway-alone as bait). Keys in hand, I unlocked, entered and relocked in one fell swoop, glad I had escaped.

But something was wrong.
It was cold.

I immediately froze (literally and figuratively). Maybe the heat was out, I thought. Not yet removing my shoes, I did a quick assessment... No lights on - the sunlight was all but gone from our windows, so I flipped on entry light. The beau's work shoes were in their usual place - several inches off the shoe mat, in a slowly widening salty puddle, which I made a mental note to clean up. His work bag was at his desk. I tried a tentative "Hey babe, you home?" as I set down my bag. No response.

Not moving in any further, I tried to rationalize. He must be out for a run -- but his running shoes and the spare key he uses were there. Or maybe he'd popped out to the grocery store, or stopped by his mother's -- but his coat and car keys were there. Maybe he'd gone to talk to the building managers about the cold and gotten locked out of the apartment and -- no, our apartment door had been locked, you have to lock it on your way out, it doesn't auto lock. Standing there in my coat, all these things ran through my head in the thirty seconds following my abrupt entry. Where was he and why on earth was our apartment cold? Our apartment was never cold. Something was wrong.

Then, of course, it dawned on me. And I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt....
Someone must have broken in through a window and had murdered my boyfriend.

Years of watching Criminal Minds had prepared me and built up a perfect level of paranoia. Like all the soon-to-be-victims in the show, I wasn't just going to leave the apartment. I needed to investigate. To see the corpse and find a way to fix the window (or grab another sweater). As a precaution, I quickly typed a text explaining that we were both murdered and had it on deck to send to my sister, mom, and a coworker (so people wouldn't just think I was tardy for work come Monday - even in death, I couldn't besmirch my reputation of punctuality) the second somebody assaulted me.* I grabbed our letter opener - because I wasn't feeling creative enough to think of another weapon.

Friday night cut-a-bitch stealth mode

Still in my coat and shoes, I began to flip on light switches as I slowly made my way down the hall calling out "Hey hun, I'm home. You here?!" Looking around, I saw and heard nothing. Not a peep, not a floorboard creak. Nothing but an ever increasing chill running up my spine that I couldn't be sure was from the cold versus the assumption that I was about to be offed by a maniac who probably had some sort of twisted fetish with silver foxes and had quietly been stalking my beau as a victim for weeks...

A slight bang made me turn my attention right, towards our second bedroom. This was the source of the cold, no doubt about it. I could see the curtain blowing about as an arctic gust whipped into the room. My contempt over not being comfortably wearing shorts in my scorching rental already got the best of me, and I rushed at the window. Looking wildly about so I'd at least be aware of an attack, stopping the cold air was my only real concern. Flailing in the curtains, I slammed the window shut and snapped the ancient lock into place. The window hadn't been broken into, but it has no screen on it anyways... and someone could have easily scaled up to it using the iron gating on the window of the floor below....

So I still assumed their was a killer present.

Looking back to the hall, I saw our main bedroom door - closed. It was never closed unless I was in it (to protect me from serial killers and fucking situations like this). So obviously, that's where the body must be. My handsome beau, with some sweaty-toothed madman waiting to get me. I'd made enough noise already so I gave one last shout into the void, "DEAR, are you dead on the street somewhere??!"** No answer. So, I threw open the door (the little bells I have on it jingling hysterically - again a warning system for me while I'm sleeping #becauseparanoid).

A wave of trapped warmth hit me. And there he was. Starfished on the bed, half tangled up in sheets, snoring quietly. I lunged at him, giving him a scolding hug, as I began rambling about how the window was open, how I assumed him dead, how he had to go search the apartment for psychopaths, etc. He sleeply mumbled about how he was napping since he'd had to go into work early. I asked if the window had been open when he had come in or if it's just blown open at some point later. A dreamy smirk and a half-asleep shrug accompanied by a "I guess I thought it was a little chilly" and I was already out of the room with a scoff.

This is how men act like boys sometimes. Paying attention to their surroundings: meh, hit or miss. He walks in, feels a chill, doesn't question it, and just goes about his day. Heads for a nap. I walk in, notice one thing slightly amiss, immediately assume someone is fucking with me or that I'm about to be murdered, grab a weapon, build a backstory, prepare a farewell text, shoot off a flare gun, and become fucking Nancy Drew.

Avoiding paranoia isn't exactly my strong point. But really, isn't it just be me being prepared? Like some sort of jumpy and neurotic boy scout? How badass that I was ready to fend off an attacker. How awesome that I realized the source of the cold and fixed it. Problem, solution. I basically came in out of the cold and was Wonder Woman. As I returned the letter opener to its place, the beau continued his nap. Walking past the kitchen, I set out some cookies - a snack for the murderer that was surely still in the apartment. I wrapped up in a blanket and curled up next to the radiator thinking about how many hours it would take for the entire apartment to reheat. And I flipped on Criminal Minds. Like a good boy scout. Getting prepared for the next time...



*After all, maybe the killer had already left and I wouldn't be killed. In which case, why cause a false panic. OR, maybe they were waiting in the lurch / were the kind to get weird with a dead guy, and I was about to bust into the room shrieking and then would get murdered myself. Either way, I couldn't send that text preemptively -  that's why people go investigate. 
**This is a typical greeting when he comes back late from a run -- "I assumed you dead. Dead on the street somewhere." Because I've always been a bit of a mama bear with a flair for dramatics.