The next day, we went to work, only to find that Shelly hadn't clocked in.
She's probably just running late, I told myself, clinging to the hope.
But as the hours ticked by with no word from her, I could barely focus. I spent the whole day sitting at my desk, staring blankly at my computer, a knot of anxiety growing in my stomach. Before I knew it, the workday was over.
Carol and I clocked out and headed to the parking lot.
"Okay... so maybe now we can worry a little," Carol said, trying to sound casual. "Let's go to her apartment and check on her. She might've just had a bad hangover."
"Fine," I replied, grabbing my keys. "But honestly, I'm really getting worried. If she were just home, hungover, she would've at least called in to work."
"Yeah, with what phone?" Carol retorted sarcastically.
We each got into our cars and drove to Shelly's place. When we arrived, we rang the doorbell and waited.
Nothing.
"Great. Now what?" I said, leaning back against the wall in frustration.
"It's broken," Carol said suddenly.
"What's broken?" I turned to look at her, and that's when I saw the doorknob in her hand.
"Oh my god, Carol, did you just break her door?"
"No! I just tried turning it to see if it was unlocked, and it came right off!" she said, holding it up like a broken toy.
"Well… I guess we should go in. And call someone to fix it," I said reluctantly.
We pushed the door open. Carol stepped in first but froze halfway through the doorway.
"Oh my god," she whispered.
"What?" I moved past her, and stopped cold.
The apartment was completely trashed.
"Oh my god… do you think she was robbed?" I asked, stepping carefully over a toppled lamp.
"I don't think so," Carol said slowly. "Her TV's still here… it's just smashed."
I moved toward the bedroom. "Well, her iPad and laptop are gone. But her jewelry's still here, right out on the dresser."
"So then what were they looking for?" Carol asked.
"I don't know," I murmured, heart pounding.
"AAAHHH!!"
I spun around and bolted toward the scream. I found Carol on the bathroom floor, her face pale, eyes wide.
"What's wrong?!" I asked, rushing to her side.
She pointed toward the bathtub.
I turned and looked.
Shelly's cat lay in a dried pool of blood. The tub was splattered with it, blood up the walls, around the tiles. It looked like someone had stabbed the poor thing again and again. And again.
"Carol…" I said quietly.
"Yeah?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Now can we worry?"
She nodded. "Yeah. Now we can."