The lift chimes, snapping me out of my spiral. The doors open to the familiar sight of my apartment—wooden floors gleaming under the late morning sun. Toys scattered across the living room, just like always. I step out, the soft thud of my feet hitting the floor the only sound in the place.
Too quiet. Way too fucking quiet.
My heart races, the knot in my stomach tightening.
“Elijah?” I call out, but there’s no answer.
“Pam?” My eyes scan the room—action figures and Lego blocks, the usual chaos that comes with having a 4-year-old, but something feels… fuckingoff.
The sound of Pikachu’s squeaky voice filters through the apartment as I inch forward.
“Pika, pika, Pikachu!”
My heartbeat thuds in my ears, and I step silently, my bare feet making no sound on the cold wooden floor. I can hear the high-pitched battle cries coming from the TV in the living room.Too loud for this time of day,but it’s not that. Something’s off. I can’t shake the feeling.
My eyes scan the place. I don’t see anything out of place, but my gut’s telling me otherwise.
The gun.
I slip over to the side table near the hallway, crouching down as I lift the base of a decorative vase. Tucked just beneath it is the short Glock, hidden away; not exactly standard home décor.
Mafia life 101—never leave yourself defenseless.
Elijah doesn’t know about it, but kids are curious. I push the thought aside for now, clicking off the safety as I step closer to the TV room.
My breath hitches as I reach the doorframe, gun at the ready.
Sweat slides down the back of my neck, but I ignore it, grip tightening on the handle. The Pikachu battle continues to fill the silence, but there’s no one here.
“Elijah?” I whisper, “Baby?”
Nothing.
My heart’s slamming against my ribs now, my pulse racing so fast it’s dizzying. I step forward, pushing the door wider. The TV flashes with Pikachu’s determined little face, electric sparks flying across the screen. But the room is empty. Cushions strewn, more toys tossed around. Butno Pam, no Elijah.
Fuck.
I hear a sound. Small, muffled. It’s coming from my bedroom.
I whip around, holding my breath. My steps are fast now but still silent as I move to the door, gun steady in my hands. I push the door open, slow at first, then swing it wide.
My finger’s on the trigger, aimed—and there’s Pam, sitting on the edge of my bed, trying to soothe Elijah, who’s bundled up in blankets, his small body curled up against her.
Pam’s eyes nearly pop out of her head, her mouth falling open.
“Miss Caldwell!” Her voice is too loud, and she freezes, hands still mid-pat on Elijah’s back.
Elijah stirs but doesn’t wake. His small hand clutches Pikachu’s tail, his face peaceful but tired, like he’s been crying for hours.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, dropping the gun to my side.
“Pam…” My voice is husky, the tension leaking out of me, but my nerves are still on edge. “You scared the shit out of me.”
Pam looks at the gun in my hand, then back to my face, eyes wide. “You… uh… you’re back.”
I sigh, running a hand over my face. “Yeah, I’m back. And we need to pack.” I nod toward Elijah, who looks completely worn out. His face is pale, tear tracks still staining his cheeks. Guilt hits me hard.
I’m so sorry, baby. I should’ve been here.
