I look through the peephole. Two men in dark coats. The hair at the back of my neck stands up.
Are they Damien’s? Or Ivan’s? I don’t wait to find out.
I kill the lamp, swing the duffel over my shoulder and cross the living room in three silent strides. The fire escape window sticks, then grudgingly gives. Cold slaps my face. I climb out, swallowing a curse when the old metal groans, and start down, past the second-floor Christmas lights and the first-floor broken wind chime. In the alley, the snow is dirty. I press against the wall and listen.
Upstairs, I hear wood splinter. They kicked the door in. An irritated voice speaks, though I can’t make out what he’s saying. I picture them in my head moving through our little space, opening drawers. I can’t think about it. I have to go.
I stick to the shadowy side of the street, hood up, head down. I don’t run. You don’t run unless you want to be chased. I walk with intent. Every parked car is a trap ready to open. Every corner is a test. I pass a church, a storefront dispensary, and a guy selling bootleg headphones. I glance over my shoulder, counting to twenty in between checks and seeing nothing.
I turn too fast at the corner and slam into a human. Coffee splashes at my feet. A hand shoots out, steadying the cup tray.
“Careful.”
Raquel Chesterfield stands in front of me like she surfaced from a billboard, a tray of coffee balanced on one palm. It looks like she’s about to scold me when she registers my face.
Her expression flips. Concern lands where disapproval usually lives. “Cassandra?”
I step back and lean my shoulder into the brick. My duffel thumps my hip.
“I’m sorry,” I say. My voice steadier than my insides. “I wasn’t looking.”
“No, you weren’t,” she says, and then softer, “What’s wrong?”
I laugh because the alternative is to cry in front of Raquel, and I refuse. “You don’t have time for the list. What are you doing in Bed-Stuy?”
She shrugs. “Photo shoot, believe it or not. I know—Brooklyn, right? First time I’ve been out of the city in months.” She looks past me, then back, reading me like a book. “Are you being followed?”
The question hits too close. I don’t answer, which is an answer in itself. She shifts the tray to her left hand and touches my elbow with the other.
“Inside,” she says, tipping her chin at the café door. “Come on.”
“That’s not—”Safe. I don’t finish. The wind knifes down the block as I think about the men in my apartment. They could be Damien’s, which would be bad in a different way, or they’re not, which is probably worse. The café is warm and has witnesses. I follow her through the door and into the smell of cinnamon and steamed milk.
The barista glances up, sees Raquel, and brightens with the particular celebrity focus small businesses are excellent at. Raquel smiles. It’s not the ice queen one. It’s tired and human and doesn’t make me hate her. It’s different.
We take a two-top by the window. Raquel sets the tray down, plucks a cup and slides it across to me. “Chamomile. It’ll calm you down. Drink.”
“You don’t have to?—”
She waves a hand. “Maybe it’ll be my good deed for the year. Drink.”
The cup is hot and my hands are cold. I’m not a complete idiot. I wrap my fingers around it and let the heat climb into my bones. When the tea kisses my lip, I realize I don’t remember the last time I had anything. I take another sip. My stomach sends up a cautious thank you.
“You look like hell,” she says, and then adds, “and not in your usual way.” A small, playful, teasing smirk follows.
“I ran out of time to contour.”
She chuckles. Her eyes keep circling my face, the duffel, the window. She doesn’t ask the question directly again, which makes me like her more than I want to.
“Why are you—” I stop. Start again. “Why are you being nice to me?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Because I’m not blind, and because I know what it’s like when his world gets too close.”
My spine tightens. “Whose world exactly?”
She gives me a look that says she knows exactly what I’m doing. “Don’t make me say the man’s name like we’re in a soap opera.”
I sit back. The tea tastes good. Outside, a bus whizzes past, leaving a smear of exhaust that the snow swallows whole. My breath slows. It feels like I’m on borrowed time, and I tuck into it like a warm blanket.
