“You’re not supposed to be up here, you know,” I tell him, reaching over to nudge his belly. He allows it, but only because he’s too round to resist. “Essie’s gonna think I’m feeding you again. And I’m not. Last time you yacked under my chair, I almost slipped and died.”
Gordo blinks, deeply unbothered.
I sigh and sink onto the faded plastic chair I dragged home two years ago and never replaced. “Fine. You can stay. But only if you promise not to poop in the thyme again.”
He yawns, turns a full quarter-inch to face away from me, and resumes judging the world.
There’s a faint thud behind me—someone walking upstairs—and a door closing. The usual sounds. The kind that used to annoy me when I first moved in, before I realized they were the closest thing to comfort. Signs of life. Of other people dragging themselves through it.
The kettle whistles inside.
I glance back through the open door, then lean over to pluck a sprig of mint from the pot near my foot.
“Guess I’ll make coffee,” I mutter, mostly to Gordo. “Pretend I have it all together for the next hour.”
I push to my feet and step back inside, letting the sliding door half-close behind me. The kettle’s still whistling. I kill the burner, pour the water over instant coffee—because life is too short for French press and too long for plain tea—and drop in the mint like that fixes everything.
But before I can take a sip, something pulls me back toward the window. A flicker. Movement.
Across the street, the Desert Palms complex sits in its usual state of sun-bleached disrepair. Stucco peeling in long strips, paint flaking like the whole building’s just giving up. It’s a three-story eyesore that’s supposed to be empty—or mostly. The kind of place that used to be affordable until someone tried to “revitalize the neighborhood,” then forgot halfway through.
But something’s different this morning.
My eyes snag on one of the third-floor balconies. The railing’s rusted out, the glass door behind it covered in grime thick enough to fingerprint with a crowbar. Nothing unusual there.
Except… I could’ve sworn I saw a shadow move. Not a curtain. Not light. A person. Just there and then gone.
I blink, stare harder. The balcony is still.
A faded sheet is duct-taped over the glass from the inside, same as it’s been for months. Nobody’s ever out there. No plants. No laundry. No life. Most of the units over there are just shells now—vacant, echoing.
I tell myself I imagined it. Probably just the wind catching something loose. A trick of light. Heat haze.
But the back of my neck prickles.
I step closer to the door, press my fingers to the warm glass. Gordo lets out a disgruntled huff behind me, then thuds to the floor and disappears under the chair.
I don’t see anyone. No movement. Nothing. But that doesn’t mean there’s no one there.
The mint in my coffee is wilting now, curling inward like it knows something I don’t.
I take a slow breath, step back from the door.
Then I lock it. Just in case.
9
Anton
Iback the dark gray Charger into the space slowly, eyes on the crooked pole someone already took out—twice. My rental. Mid-2010s model. No chrome, no decals. Looks like half the unmarked sedans parked outside county buildings. Ray arranged it with a burner card and a name I haven’t used in five years. Paperwork’s clean enough to pass.
Not too old to draw attention. Not too new to raise eyebrows. Just another forgettable ghost in a dying parking lot.
Fucking perfect.
The space next to mine is empty except for a splintered crib leaning against the wall. No security cameras. No patrols. No HOA. Just the wind and a couple of wind-chimes somewhere above, clinking like loose teeth.
I kill the engine. Let my hand rest on the gearshift. The A/C cuts off, and the heat leaks in fast.
