I slowed down without meaning to, a chill running down my spine as a feeling of dread washed over me. Those eyes, familiar yet unsettling, struck a chord deep within me. I couldn’t place them, but the instinctive recognition filled me with an icy fear. They reminded me of shadows lurking too close, and the realization sent my heart racing.
“Word on the streets is you dead, but I see that was a lie. I guess I have to make that come true,” he said, his eyes fixed on mine as a slow smile spread across his face. He lifted his hand, shaped his fingers into a gun, then said, “Pow.”
I instinctively reached toward my waist, where I would usually keep the pistol I found at the stash house. It wasn’t there, and I felt as exposed as the day I was born. Before now, I hadn’t understood why I felt the need to carry it with me everywhere I went, but now it made sense. Even without my memory, some habits had stayed with me.
They had a reason.
My hand dropped to my side, but I didn’t break eye contact with him. I forced myself to stay where I was, even though everything in me was telling me to run.
Eventually, I turned around, keeping at a pace that felt normal. Drawing attention would only make things worse. I crossed the street, picking up my pace to put some distance between us without making it obvious.
“Where is Boodaaaaa?” The man laughed, his voice following me down the street as he repeated it. “Booda. Booda. Booda.” He dragged the name out each time, taunting me with it.
“Don’t look again,” I urged myself, but my curiosity won out, and I glanced back.
They were still there, those eyes, unblinking and watchful, sending a wave of anxiety through me.
Panic clenched my chest as I stumbled toward my car, fumbling with the keys until the lock clicked open under my shaking hand. I slid inside and locked the doors, heart pounding like a drum in my ears. A moment later, the engine roared to life, drowning out the sound of my breathing.
I pressed the gas, the tires squealing as I took off, and followed the route on my phone, my mind racing faster than the car.
Whoever that was… they weren’t just a watchful presence. They were a threat, and I had no intention of sticking around to find out why.
I had to escape before it was too late.
CHAPTER 3
Living in Apartment 214 had become a rote existence that I didn’t have to think about. On most days, I moved through it on autopilot. I knew where everything was, how far to reach for things without looking, and how long it took the place to cool down once the sun dropped behind the building.
But it wasn’t just the layout I knew. I had memorized every sound.
The soft click of the fridge, the bathroom pipe’s knock before the water gurgled to life, and the slight drag of the front door when it needed a firmer push to close. Those sounds meant everything was how it should be. None of it caught me off guard until it did.
Living like this was something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I was broke, didn’t have a life, didn’t know who I was, and was too afraid to do anything but exist inside this apartment.
All I wanted these days was my man and to be happy, but neither was feasible. The thought of finding him came up moreoften than I liked. It would hit me at random. Sometimes, when I was sitting alone in the dark, and sometimes when I caught myself wishing for things I couldn’t explain. I didn’t have any memories of us, but I knew what he meant to me, and that feeling didn't go away.
Every time it came up, I heard Mrs. Mary calling me selfish for even thinking about reaching out to him. She said I was only focused on what I wanted, not on what it would do to him. He was locked up with no release date, and I was out here living a life he couldn’t be a part of.
Contacting him, with no memory of what we had, wouldn’t bring him comfort. It would remind him of everything he’d lost and everything he couldn’t reach. He would have to look at me and know I was out here alone, without him, and that he couldn’t do anything to change that.
If something happened to me after that, he would grieve, knowing he couldn’t protect me or fix the problem. That wasn’t something I could put on him just because I wanted to feel close to him again.
So I stayed where I was.
Not because I did not want him, but because wanting him wasn’t enough to justify the mental anguish my presence would cost him.
As I paced the living room floor, trying to figure out why I was feeling antsy all of a sudden, a knock sounded at the door. I paused mid-step and turned toward it, but I didn’t move to answer.
Looking down at the gun in my hand, I flicked the safety off, then moved toward the door, one slow step at a time. I leaned into the peephole and looked out, but the hallway looked empty. However, a faint scuff of movement on the other side told me it wasn’t.
“What do you want?” I asked, getting straight down to business as I snatched open the door.
At the same time, my pistol was up, aimed at the space between the knocker’s eyes.
It was Tink.
The kid jerked back so fast his heel caught a crack in the concrete, forcing him to quickly right himself before he went down. The bags in his hand swung wide, and he pulled them to his chest so he wouldn’t drop anything inside.
