Marissa.

“Go look.”

Barrett said it again when the first light hit the sheets. His fingers were still inside me from the night before, slow and lazy, like he had nowhere else to be. Reid was already gone from the couch. I heard the front door an hour earlier.

I pulled away and sat up. Barrett watched me walk naked across the room to his side of the bed.

The second drawer opened easy. Under a folded handkerchief and a bottle of lube that had not been there last week sat a single brass key on a cheap metal ring. A small white tag. Barrett’s handwriting.

314 Westbrook. Spare.

My...