When the fuck did you ever care about ‘right’?
I run a hand through my hair, confusion spilling like blood inside me.
Fucking woman works at a shelter and lives in a rat-infested hovel, while giving money away like she doesn’t need it.
Is she trying to win the fucking Mother Teresa of the Year Award?
3
FIRST GLIMPSE, HIS
CALISTA
When you’ve lived most of your life dodging men who believe you belong to them, you learn to feel eyes on you.
Even the covert ones—especiallythe covert ones. Because they have tells.
A breath too still. A shadow that doesn’t move when everything else does. A cold pinch at the back of your neck when someone’s watching too hard.
I felt the eyes for the first time while I was handing out bowls of soup.
One minute I am talking to Mrs. Mendoza about her son’s court date, and the next there’s a ripple in the room. There is no sound. There is no one to see. But I can feel the presence all the same.
I glance around without making it obvious. There’s no one. Nothing. Just fluorescent lights, a few tired volunteers, and the usual crowd of familiar faces.
But I know better than to trust what things look like.
I keep smiling. Keep doing what I do. But every time I move, I can feel the eyes on me. A weight I didn’t invite.
I know for sure when I step outside with the garbage bags. They’re heavier than usual, and I’m silently cursing Eduardo for forgetting to double-line the cans,again.
I open the dumpster lid, the cold December air stealing my breath, which isn’t a bad thing when you’re next to trash.
I canfeelthem. I don’tseethem,but I know.
A chill runs through me, one that has nothing to do with the temperature.
I don’t turn around right away. That’s the mistake amateurs make—whipping your head around like you’re in a bad spy movie. Instead, I shift the weight of the bags in my hands, take a slow breath, and glance back.
I throw the bags in, and the lid closes with a loud noise. I brush my hands against my jeans and walk back to the shelter.
I glance at the reflection in the windows at the back of the building.
There. Just barely—broad shoulders, dark coat, standing still across the street near the corner lamppost like he’s part of the shadows of the night.
It’s a man. I’m sure of it. Tall. Still. Watching.
He’s good. Most wouldn’t notice him. But I’ve lived in shadows long enough to recognize one that doesn’t belong.
He thinks he’s invisible. He’s not.
Someone else may think it’s their mind playing tricks, but I know better. Something has shifted in the universe I left behind, I’m sure of it.
I stay in the shelter office longer than usual.
When I turn the lights off, I can feel the shadow. He’s still out there, and he hasn’t moved.
Not a mugger. Not a drunk. Not a lost tourist.
