His voice sounds familiar, but I can't place it.
Cold chills crawl down my spine as I realize this man is probably the one who sent me the messages.
"Who are you?"
"You're always asking the wrong questions, Ezrah."
I feel cornered. If Sebastian weren't unconscious in my arms, I'd have approached the man already and gotten answers. I know how to fight. I made sure of it after my father.
"You're free to go. I'll take care of the body," the man says, gesturing to it like he's talking about candy.
"No."
What if he calls the police? I'm not risking Sebastian. I don't even care if that makes me complicit.
"And how do you plan to take care of the body? Do you know how to disassemble it? How to clean the blood in the alley? How to move it and dispose of it?"
I swallow, cursing inwardly.
He's right, but it still feels like I'd be letting down my boy.
"I'll take care of the body. You take care of your boy. In my opinion, I'm offering you a generous deal."
I can tell his patience is running thin.
"You won't call the police?"
"So this is what you're worried about." If I'm not mistaken, he's smiling. "No. I won't. Now go before I change my mind and leave you to clean up the mess you made."
"Me?" I blurt before I can stop myself.
"If you hadn't pounded the boy like a barbarian, he'd have taken care of his work."
Jesus Christ. How much did this man see? And who the hell is he?
I don't wait to find out.
Carefully, I sidestep him and leave. I'm careful on my way back to my car, making sure I'm walking in the darker parts of the street, avoiding people. Only once Sebastian is in my car do I exhale and relax.
The drive back to my apartment is uneventful. Considering I just witnessed a murder and went feral on my boy like a possessed devil, I expected something to go wrong.
I carry Sebastian inside. Thankfully, it's so late that no neighbors see us.
Once home, I strip his clothes and put him in some of mine. I hesitate, unsure what to do with his clothes. What if there's evidence on them? I shove them into a bag, tie it shut, and decide to wait until he wakes up to ask what to do.
I'm not used to waiting for my boy to tell me what to do.
It feels wrong.
That's why I plan on doing something the second he wakes up – after we have a long, long talk.
In the meantime, I grab a washcloth and clean his face and hands. I bring a bottle of water to the bedside table, then head to the kitchen. I prepare some light snacks for him when he wakes up and leave them on a tray.
After a quick shower, I join my boy in bed. I pull him close and hold him tightly.
What happened tonight loops through my mind as I try to reconcile the boy I know with the man who sliced a throat like it was the most normal thing in the world.
I have a thousand questions, but I refuse to dwell on them now. When my boy wakes up, he'll tell me everything.
