Heaving myself up, I clock back into work and continue my shift.
When the clock strikes two in the afternoon, and other employees show up to take over, I don’t wait around for permission to leave. I clock out, grab my things, and say my goodbyes.
I successfully escape Mocha Lisa and dart away. The train ride back to Brooklyn is uneventful. When I step onto the platform, I finally allow myself to slow down.
A tingle grates over my skin, creating an urge deep in my muscles. I know what I need to do. I know how to get rid of it, but I can’t act on it yet. I have to be smart because I don’t want to be likehim.
After my father was arrested, I had to switch to online classes to escape the taunts and threats at school. It got even worse when someone leaked the address of our apartment online. Police were slow to respond to my 911 calls, so I changed my last name from Bartlett to Foster and moved apartments immediately after I finished high school.
I never attended Davis College, as my father had wanted, and I refused to make an appearance at his trial. Agent Marreli showed me the evidence they had compiled that led them to my father the night he was hauled off in handcuffs. Even though my father never admitted to the murders, I knew it was him.
Marreli was right. The evidence was damning.
The smell of stir fry drifts to my nose from Taki Yuki as I find it increasingly difficult to put one foot in front of the other. I’ll order ramen after I’ve taken a nap.
Trudging up the stairs to my apartment, I find a small, wrapped package on my doormat. It’s no larger than the size of my fist.
Who would send me something? Not many people know I, John’s daughter, live here. Did someone release my address again?
Shoving the box into my bag, I look over my shoulder, waiting for someone to pop out and yell, “Gotcha!”
When that doesn’t happen, I scramble to get my door unlocked and duck inside my apartment.
My apartment looks just as I left it. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s not a total dump. The kitchen is big enough for one person, which is all I need. I got my couch second-hand from someone online. A tall cube shelf divides the space in two, creating a makeshift living room and bedroom. On the other side of the shelf is my desk, my bed, the bathroom, and a sliding door that leads to my little balcony.
I lean my back against the door to take a deep breath, but before I can shut it, I’m pushed forward as someone shoves the door back open.
“What the…” I whirl around with my hand in my bag, gripping a carbon fiber handle. I’m ready to whip out the sharp blade of my knife when a familiar face walks through the door.
Nate Reed. My boyfriend.
I’m not in the mood for this.
“What are you doing here?” My question comes out sharper than I intended.
Nate hits me with his ice blue irises. “Can’t a guy drop by to see his girlfriend?” He takes a step toward me, but I move back. He tries to keep the hurt look off his face, but it’s plain as day.
We met one night when Blake took me clubbing, and he was at one of the places we went. He was cute, and Blake convinced me to give him a chance, so I did. He’s a good-looking guy. Tall, pretty hair, nice smile. But he texts me nonstop, and he tells me all the time how rich his dad is.
I haven’t dated much, and I got tired of the string of bad dates. And anyone who did stick around for more than a week eventually left for the same reason…
Nate slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I came by to hang out. I figured we could order dinner in, cuddle on your couch, watch Netflix…”
I’m really not in the mood forthat.
Shaking my head, I move around Nate to open the door all the way. “Not tonight, Nate. I’m tired, and I’ve been on my feet for hours. I’m going to turn in early and get some sleep. I have another opening shift tomorrow.”
Nate pouts. He actually pouts.
A thirty-year-old man stands in my apartment and pouts like a child when I tell him that I’m not in the mood to have sex tonight.
How is this my life?
“Come on, Savannah. We’ve been going out for a while now?—”
I cut him off to correct him. “It’s only been a week.”
Nate continues as if I didn’t speak at all. “And I was hoping that we could…you know.”
