Makeup. ID. Emergency contact: John.
Cash—just a little.
Pepper spray, tucked in the side pocket like a secret I hoped I wouldn’t need.
PING!
The sound shot through the room like a firecracker, nearly launching me off my bed.
My heart punched my ribs, and my fingers scrambled to steady my phone. The screen lit up with a brightness far too sharp for a mind this fragile.
Traffic Alert: I-405 South
Slower than usual traffic on the 405 toward Santa Monica. Estimated arrival: 7:24 p.m.
Shit.
Adrenaline surged. I moved like a spark catching fire—snapping off lights, grabbing keys, locking the deadbolt with one hand while slinging my bag over the other. My shoes clicked a nervous rhythm across the floorboards as I rushed to the door.
Then—
The screen door slammed behind me, the warped steps groaning as I hurried down the stairs.
I didn’t stop.
Not for breath.
Not for doubt.
Because whatever waited for me on the other end of this night—I had a feeling it was going to change everything.
Then––one heel snagged on the edge of the third step, jerking me backward with a violent jolt. I pitched forward, grabbing the railing with both hands as the rest of me kept moving. My ankle twisted, and I let out a muffled curse through my teeth.
“You okay?” Mr. Briggs called from his usual spot in the courtyard, his voice warm and wheezy. “Did you trip?”
“Fine,” I managed to mutter, straightening my spine as I bent to free my heel from between two slats. The wood had clamped on like a mouth, chewing at the leather of my counterfeit shoes. “Damn stairs,” I cursed.
For half a second, I thought about asking again—reminding him the steps needed fixing. That they were dangerous. That one day someone was going to break their neck.
But when I glanced down again, finding him sitting in a sagging lawn chair with a blanket over his knees, the words lodged in my throat and stayed there. He was trying. Probably had over a dozen phone-calls into his good-for-nothing son about this very thing.
With a sharp twist, I freed my heel and steadied myself on the railing again.
“Mark said he’d come by Monday,” Mr. Briggs muttered, the apology in his voice weak and slightly embarrassed.
I let out a short laugh, brushing imaginary dust from my skirt, knowing it was yet another of his son’s false promises. Either that, or he’d show up later in the afternoon, lingering around my door, trying to wear me down into going to dinner. No thank you! I’d take splintered steps and rusted railings overhimany day.
I walked to the bottom, more carefully this time. Someone’s laundry flapped from a second-story banister, the colors bleached pale by the sun, and a faint smell of Tide filled my nostrils. I dodged a half-deflated soccer ball as I walked past Mr. Briggs’ chair, then sidestepped a toddler-sized bike which was tipped over near the mailboxes.
My BMW waited at the far end of the lot, parked beneath the lightpost that had gone dark over a month ago—just one more thing Mark hadn’t gotten around to fixing.
I slid behind the wheel, plugged in my phone for CarPlay, and a message blinked across the screen almost immediately.
John: You there?
I stared at the message, fingers tightening around the steering wheel with the kind of tension that had been building for weeks.
Then I exhaled, flipped the screen to GPS, and eased the car into reverse––I’d text him back tomorrow.
