Grabbing a broom, I started sweeping, tossing the clothes thrown everywhere into a pile against the wall as I worked.
The edge of the broom caught on something half under the overturned couch, and I tugged it free, frowning at the yellow envelope I usually kept under the mattress in the bedroom.
When I picked it up, I realized it was torn and the papers I kept inside were gone. The broom handle smacked against the floor when I let it go, and a wave of despair crashed over me. These papers were probably the only thing of value in this entire apartment, and they were gone. I let out a strangled sound, the envelope crinkling as I ripped it completely open, hoping to find something inside.
Tossing down the yellow shreds, I spun around, searching the space for where they could be scattered. Intense anger overcame me, layered with frustration. It propelled me around the room, tossing shit everywhere while searching.
My chest was heaving, room spinning, and sweat dotted my brow when I sank onto the edge of the tipped-over couch. Those papers weren’t here. Whoever broke in took them.
But why?
Yes, they were important.To me. To anyone else, I couldn’t see the value. When I aged out of foster care at eighteen, I’d literally left with the clothes on my back and that manila envelope in my hand.
I was only a few hours old when my birth mother left me at the entrance of the hospital. I’d been naked, the umbilical cord still attached. There was no note, nothing at all but a blanket.
I had no name. No parents. No identity at all.
Over the years, not much changed in the way of possessions. Nothing was ever really mine. The clothes I wore were hand-me-downs and shared among the other orphans. The bed I slept in, temporary until another came along. When I was old enough to work, the money I earned was constantly stolen until I learned to hide it well.
The only thing I had that no one could really take away was my name. Yeah, it was given to me by the state, but it was mine. My birth certificate and social security card were proof. Some might view the official documents I was given when I became an adult as yet another rejection—the state saying I didn’t belong to them anymore. To me, it was my independence and proof that my place in this world was nowmine.
Having that tangible identity meant something to me. And it had been ripped away. While I knew my name was still mine, it felt like I was back there—in a place where I didn’t exist at all.
I ruminated between rage and sorrow, ending up as an odd mixture of both. As I gazed around my invaded space, a need for vengeance arose. They’d taken something from me, and I wanted it back.
And I wanted to know why they thought they could take it at all. Because I was small? Poor? Alone in the world?
I was all of those things, but I was not weak.
Forgetting the shambles around me, I stormed across the hall to my neighbor’s door. I knocked and waited, then knocked again. Silence greeted me, and I gazed up at the dingy ceiling.Of all the times he decides to not be home…Rett was always home. He hated going out.
A noise in the stairwell at the end of the hall had me twisting around, hoping it was him. The door flew open, slamming against the wall, a large body filling the doorway.
It was not Rett.
Unless he’d gone radioactive and tripled in size.
The man stopped, seeing me standing there, his eyes lighting up with recognition. “There he is,” he announced, and—oh, goodie—he wasn’t alone.
Two other men of equal radioactive size came out of the stairwell behind him. All three of them had guns and weren’t bothering to cover their faces.
You know what that meant, right?
Yeah, they didn’t care if I saw their face because they didn’t plan on letting me live.
I wasn’t about to inquire about why I was recognizable. They didn’t have faces that welcomed a chat. No, I hightailed it back to my apartment and slammed the door.
I scrambled to lock it, but—oh, that’s right—the lock was busted.
Instead, I threw the chain across, knowing it was pathetic, but, hey, an extra two seconds were an extra two seconds. This would also have been a good time to call the police. Except for two things:
My phone was out of commission.
And…
