My heart nearly stopped at the persistent knocking. With trembling hands, I grabbed the heaviest lamp I owned and crept toward the door. The phone had stopped ringing, leaving an eerie silence broken only by another firm knock.
"Who is it?" I called out, my voice shakier than I wanted.
"Delivery for Monroe," came a muffled reply.
Delivery? At this hour? I peered through the peephole to see a young man in a restaurant uniform holding a large paper bag.
I cracked the door open, chain still in place. "I didn't order anything."
The delivery boy consulted his phone. "Order was placed by T. Sinclair. Already paid for, including tip." He extended the bag through the narrow opening.
The rich aroma of food hit me instantly, making my stomach growl with a ferocity that surprised me. When had I last eaten? Before the detention center, certainly.
"Thank you," I murmured, taking the bag.
