I cranked the engine. “Sorry, what was that? Can’t really hear you!”
His voice got louder. “I said, I’ll call the police if you come back around here!”
I revved the engine. “One more time for me! I still can’t hear you!”
And when he narrowed his eyes, I reached out and patted his cheek. “Your job is just fine; I’ll make sure of that. And in the meantime, keep an eye out. I may need you again soon.”
I kicked up my kickstand and pushed off toward the exit. As people came through the gate, they nodded at me, and I waved at them simply because I enjoyed putting on a show. No one ever suspected the nice, kind man who waved at them every time they saw one another. After all, half of what I did was make sure we kept a decent reputation around town. We couldn’t utilize the town’s help without their trust. But that trust went both ways.
And for some reason, my gut told me to burn my contact with Roger.
I need the warehouse.
I knew the guys were expecting me back at the house, but I needed to think. If I was going to be walking back in there with answers, then I wanted all of them. I wanted every answer to every question, including why the fuck Roger hadn’t gotten me this shit the first time we danced haphazardly around one another.
Goddamn it, how badly had we fucked up?
With the wind in my hair, wrapping around my waist, I merged onto the highway. The closer I got, the more the darkness called to me. Santaleah and its rolling desert hills dotted with cacti fell into the background, giving way to the warehouse district that had been all but abandoned out there in the dust and clay-rotted sand. The cracked ground reminded me of home. The chilly temperature reminded me that I was alive and breathing, prepared to take on another battle for our survival.
I also remembered when the place used to be alive.
Stores littered the facades of warehouses that sat directly on the street while shops and apartment complexes lined the inner roads. There were block parties in the streets and dance battles in the alleyways. People from all walks of life that usually ended up in the underbelly of society in the sewers came to seek refuge within those metal-stained walls. And oh, the solace I took in being around those like me. It used to be a safe haven for all of those outcasted by humanity.
Then, the over-policing started.
I eased down the abandoned roads, taking in the cracked concrete and broken glass and used condoms that littered the bowing sidewalks. I thought about all of the times I had challenged drug-addled gangsters packing heat to dance battles as a fucking ten-year-old, like I was all big and bad or some shit. The memories tugged a smile across my face. I loved this place, the warehouse district. For many, it was the stuff of nightmares. But when the sun started to set and those shadows were cast, it felt like coming home.
I eased myself right up to a door I used to trudge in and out of all the time as a young boy. A comic bookstore, of all things. I grabbed the files and headed inside. The rusted door took a bit of work to open, but it caved after slamming my shoulder into it. I breathed in the deep, musty scent of old books and dye-stained papers that had rotted away over time. I shoved the door closed behind me and pulled out my cellphone, using its flashlight to illuminate my way. I bellied up to a dilapidated table in the corner and flopped down into the cushioned chair I had left here the last time I had taken up residence to look this information over.
And as I sat back, I dumped the contents of the plastic bag out in front of me.
“All right,” I said, cracking my knuckles, “time to get to work.”
The sun casted rays of light through the shattered windows as night fell all around me. I found all of the stereotypical information one would find within those birthing documents: birth weight, time, length, bilirubin levels, time under a heat lamp. And while all of it was important, none of it pointed me toward what we had been looking for.
Until a simple section entitled “birth order” popped out at me.
“Second,” I murmured.
I paused. No, I didn’t pause—I froze. Birth order. Did that mean what I thought it meant? I couldn’t get to my fucking internet quickly enough. My fingers typed away as I chewed on my lower lip, my entire body shivering in that chair. And when the internet confirmed for me what the hell I was looking at, I knew we were sunk.
She was the second-born child.
So, who in the fuck had been the first?
4
BRIELLE
The silence bothered me. I didn’t hear anyone stomping around upstairs. I didn’t hear any harsh voices filtering through the ceiling. I didn’t even hear yelling, which I had heard over the course of my time there. I still hadn’t figured out how long I had been here, by the way. Judging by the ache of my body, it had to have been at least a day.
Maybe two.
A light turned on and I cowered away. “Ah, shit.”
“Whoops,” a playful voice said.
The violence of the light faded away until it was nothing more than a soft dim. With my body turned away from its source, I peered over my shoulder and out into the darkness. There were all sorts of sounds I couldn’t place. Clinking, and tinkering. Soft footfalls as opposed to the valiant stomps of the man that had damn near killed me.
