“Mmhmm.”
“That’s good. I’m going to keep talking to you, so you know you’re not alone, but you don’t need to say anything unless it’s an emergency. My name’s Lenore, and?—“
Lenore continued to speak, but the only thing I heard was the earlier popping sound, over and over. Pop pop…pop…pop. And then again. Pop pop…pop pop.
Like popcorn.
Like death.
I wake drenched in sweat,the hoodie twisted around my neck and my jeans climbing up my crotch. I roll off thebed and land on the floor in a gasping, shaking heap, tearing at the sweatshirt until I yank it off.
Ever since the night I’d ended up spending forty-two minutes in a pitch-black closet, only to emerge and find my family had been slain while I’d been hiding, I’ve had issues with claustrophobia. And darkness. The smallest, most random thing set it off.
The clock on the microwave over the stove reads two o’seven. I’ve been asleep since nearly eight this morning—almost a full night’s sleep. Good enough for me, anyway.
I’m still exhausted, though, my eyes burning and gritty with broken sleep. I press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets and flop back on the floor where I fell, remnants of the dream that has haunted me for the past fifteen years resonating hollowly in my tiny apartment.
The fan I use regardless of the season circles sluggishly above, drawing my eye. I like the sound it makes, especially when I’m having trouble falling asleep.
That wasn’t a problem this morning, but it’s surprisingly difficult at other times, given how depleted working the night shift leaves me.
Thwap.
Thwap.
Thwap.
On the fourth revolution my brain engages.
The way I see it, I have two choices.
I can stay and allow the past to continue to haunt every corner I turn. I can keep looking for a rosary tattoo when I know damn well where it is.
Or at least where it was last seen.
Or I can pack my bags, give Cap my resignation, and point my battered old Explorer toward New Orleans, Louisiana. And finally…finally get my chance at revenge, even if it costs me everything.
The one thing I will absolutelynotdo is tell Cal, my foster dad, what I’m doing, though. His over-protective ass will pitch a fit.
My father’s former security advisor, Cal has been my guardian angel since my family was killed—well, as soon as he was able to get custody, anyway. This wouldnotsit well with him.
Especially since it’s pretty obvious someone sent me that photo with the goal to get me down there…to Noir. I’m not a complete idiot.
Stay, or go.
Standing, I rest my hands on my hips and cast a glance around the four walls I’ve called home for the past nine years. It has its fair share of problems, but with Chicago’s housing market the way it is, I’m lucky to have a place that’s relatively safe, clean, and functional.
All one room save for the bathroom and two small closets, the apartment holds no mysteries. Secrets are scattered casualties to sacrificed privacy—the electric bill on the coffee table. The diary I scribble in when the mood hits me. The electric blue vibrator beside the bed.
Clothes are draped over every available surface, holding court with potted plants I struggle to keep alive. I touch the sharp leaf of a drooping spider plant, the corner of my lips lifting in wry admission of my own incompetence.
I’m better with people, and that’s not saying much.
Stay, or go.
My hands sweat, and I rub them on my pants, turning to look out the window at the gray city street beneath me.
It’s never still. Never quiet. There are always people walking, pausing at the intersection to send a swift glance up, then down, before jogging across. There’s always a horn tooting, always someone walking a dog who stops to take a shit on the postage-stamp patch of grass outside my building.
