His expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his posture. "Yes."
"Does it mean something? Or is it just… paranoia? Broken brain stuff?"
"In my experience, the body knows before the mind does. If you felt watched, you probably were."
A shiver runs through me despite the Miami heat. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold.
"It was probably nothing. The club's old. I'm tired. Too many ghosts in that place."
"Maybe. But you'll tell me if it happens again."
Not a question. I nod, too tired to argue. The weight of being watched still sits heavy on my shoulders, making me want to check the mirrors, the windows, anywhere eyes might hide.
We arrive at my building, and the driver lets us out at the curb. Through the glass doors, I can see Eduardo at his post in the lobby, and he greets us with his usual professional blindness to my state as we pass through. The elevator ride feels endless. When we finally reach my apartment, I head straight for my room.
"Goodnight," I say without looking back.
"It's six PM."
"Goodnight, Nico."
I lie on my bed, still in my dress, staring at the ceiling. Usually by now I'd be three glasses deep in champagne, maybe a Xanax for dessert. But something about today, about Nico's compliment, about proving I can handle my business even when my hands shake, makes me want to try something different.
One night. I can do one night sober.
It's harder than it should be. Every sound feels too loud. Every thought too clear. This is why I drink, why I take pills, why I stay in motion. Because in the stillness, in the clarity, the ghosts come calling.
I close my eyes, willing sleep without chemical assistance. For the first time in months, it actually comes.
The dream is vivid, visceral.
I'm eighteen again, standing in the doorway of the Calypso Room. The blue wallpaper with silver patterns. The white carpet. Gabriel on his knees beside her body, his face a mask of horror I've never seen before or since.
"Mari." His voice breaks. "I didn't mean… she just stopped breathing… I don't know what happened…"
Her lips blue. The way her body lies twisted, one arm thrown out like she was reaching for something. For air. For help. For life.
"I'll help you," I hear myself say. My voice sounds far away, belonging to someone else. "It's okay. I'll help you. We'll fix this."
But we didn't fix it. We covered it up. Gabriel fled to the priesthood, and I started drowning myself nightly, and the Calypso Room stayed sealed with its secrets.
I wake gasping at 3 AM, sheets soaked with sweat, heart racing like I've been running. The darkness presses in, and for a moment I can't remember where I am. When I am.
Then I hear it. Movement through the wall. Footsteps, deliberate and measured. Nico, awake in the darkness.
He's keeping watch.
The tactical banana who counts my drinks and catches me when I stumble and covers for my shaking hands is awake at 3 AM, keeping watch over a disaster who doesn't deserve it.
I should find this creepy. Instead, I pull my pillow closer and let the sound of his footsteps lull me back toward sleep. For the first time in eight years, I don't feel completely alone with my ghosts.
5 - Nico
Four hours since she disappeared into her room. Four hours of me pretending to sleep while listening for danger that never comes. Then at 3 AM, screaming cuts through the silence like a blade through silk.
Stay out. Her bedroom is off-limits. That was the rule. But her scream cuts through protocol like shrapnel through kevlar, and I'm through her door before my brain catches up with my body.
She's thrashing in silk sheets, clawing at invisible demons. The room hits me with her scent: vanilla, coconut, the ghost of last night's perfume. But I can't process any of it because she's tearing at her own arms, drawing red lines with manicured nails.
