Chapter Six
Chapter 6
SIENNA
“I’M GOING TO FAIL,” I mutter, staring at my reflection in my bedroom mirror. I look like a still portrait frozen in perpetual dismay.
“Oh, bullshit,” Jada says, messing with my short curls. I told her my black bob wouldn’t curl well, but she forced it into submission. She mists my hair with hairspray and I cough from the particles stinging my nose.
“You’re perfect for the job,” she continues. “You’ll make a great receptionist, and they’ll fucking love you. If they don’t, they’re little bitches and you’ll find somewhere better.”
I frown. Her British accent has been slipping this past week, and I’ve been missing the fun slang. ‘Twat’ is just more colorful than ‘little bitches.’
“I don’t care about the work environment,” I say, smoothing the front of my crisp white blouse. “I have to get a job now or I’m screwed.”
And I mean it. This past week has been a nightmare, a perfect storm of bad luck and bad timing. First, the record store let me go because they needed to downsize. I’m bummed because it was my favorite job—no dress code, super chill, plenty of time to work on schoolwork or just scroll through social media. But it’s not like I didn’t see it coming; the owner had been talking about financial troubles for months while trying to come up with creative ways to market the store. He sells records though—not a big demand for those nowadays.
So, I got fired from that job and thought, Well, I still have two jobs and I’ll find something else soon.
The next day, my supervisor at the beauty counter said, “We need to talk.” That’s never good. Apparently, a coworker had been caught doing drugs in the bathroom and dropped my name. I never liked her and she knew it. I just didn’t expect her to be so petty. Of course, I’d never do drugs at work, or at all.
The supervisor didn’t believe me and demanded my nametag. I’ll get a deposit soon for my last paycheck, but it won’t be much.
Now, here I am, down to one measly part-time gig waiting tables on the weekends. It’s barely enough to cover the exorbitant grocery prices in San Francisco, let alone rent, bills, and my crushing student loans. Oh, and all the extra art supplies I need for my final semester project, which is due in about two weeks. Things have been so chaotic lately that I haven’t even started it, which is so dumb.
Jada holds me firmly by the shoulders, staring into my eyes with her red ones. Another pair of colored contacts I don’t like. They’re too creepy and make me think she’s a vampire. “You got this. You’re professional as fuck and they’ll love you. Everyone else does.”
I relax a little and smirk. “Thanks, but that ‘everyone’ is just you.”
“And my opinion is gospel.”
I give her a quick hug because she always has my back. She even said she’d let my rent slide until I find more work.
I hate the idea of being a burden, though, of not pulling my own weight. I absolutely need to nail this job interview this morning.
With a fragile sigh, I adjust my blouse for the thousandth time. As I slip into my flats, I say, “Well, wish me luck.” My voice is only mildly shaky.
“You don’t need it cuz the job’s already yours. Hey—”
I glance at her. She’s looking as comfy as ever in a yellow romper. “Yeah?”
She’s eyeing my bedroom door, picking at her chewed fingernails. “Um, did you return that…” Her words fade into air because I know she doesn’t want to say ‘jacket’ and risk another fight.
Of course, we made up and talked everything out. But knowing she even thought I stole something, even for a second before she regretted it, still stings. It makes me worry that people will always be able to sense my criminal past, no matter how far I distance myself from it.
I grab my purse, knocking some clutter off my desk that I’ll pick up later. “I returned it.”
“You never told me how you met Declan at the gala.”
I freeze. “How do you know his name?”
Giving me a guilty but devilish grin, she responds, “The initials on the pin. After some serious digging, I found a very small mention in a very obscure article on the Internet. It was about a recognition dinner, and it mentioned a few benefactors that received pins for their support of nonprofits and the art community. I connected the name to the initials cuz I’m a fucking detective.” I laugh as her eyebrows arch and she smacks her lips. “You know,” she continues, “If you’re having money troubles, this guy can—”
“No,” I cut in sharply, forcing my mind not to slip back to thoughts of him. It’s been a struggle these past few weeks, ever since I told him not to text. “I need backers for my art program, but it’s just not going to work with Declan.”
I’m too willing to give myself to that man.
“But this is the chance you’ve been waiting for, babe. You have an in . Sienna, listen, the guy is—”
“No, don’t tell me. I haven’t looked him up. I don’t want to know.” The less I know, the better; I really can’t keep going on like this with my insides feeling so jittery and jumbled every time he crosses my mind. He needs to stay a stranger.
Jada is slack-jawed but doesn’t say anything as I slip out of my bedroom. She follows, the floorboards creaking beneath us.
When I reach the front door, she gives me a quick hug, her floral perfume hugging me too. “I have a ton of errands to run, but when I get home later, we’ll have a celebration dinner. Sound good?”
I grab my car keys off a hook. “Sure, but first I have to get the job. And I’ll celebrate if it’s, like, two-dollar tacos because that’s all I can afford. Ramen and cheap tacos. Or I’ll just drink flavored water. Losing a few pounds won’t hurt.”
“Stop it,” Jada says, nudging me with her elbow as she laughs. “I’m paying. Now go get it done so you can stop worrying.”
With a nod and a wave, I’m off to the interview.
As I navigate the morning traffic, I cling tightly to the steering wheel. I try to calm myself with deep breaths and by mentally rehearsing some possible interview answers, but my mind keeps wandering to this past week’s biggest knife to the gut: the gallery rejection.
I tried. I really gave it my all and poured my heart into a series of paintings I called ‘Broken.’ Five paintings all depicting broken things associated with my childhood: broken barbies, a broken swing set, broken lamps. Cracked dishes and ashtrays. A broken bathroom mirror. Not one set of ominous watchful eyes, which my teachers still insist are ‘trite.’
I thought, maybe naively, that this could be some kind of break, some tiny step forward. The art show is in a renowned gallery, and they were specifically looking to showcase student work in an upcoming show. Being able to say I was accepted into the show would give me something amazing to put on my CV, which currently has nothing art-related on it. I know I don’t need to be an amazing artist to start an art program, since it’s a non-profit venture that requires more business skills, but it matters to me. I want to start a program and be an artist.
I want my art to mean something to others. Make them feel seen, inspired, moved…
After losing two jobs, I held out hope for a positive response from the gallery. But I’ve always been allergic to good luck. The rejection email was polite, but the subtext very clear—my work isn’t good enough.
Everything is crumbling around me and soon there will be nothing left for me to stand on.
I blink back the sudden sting of tears, refusing to let my mascara run. Stay focused. If I nail this job interview, it’ll give me the hope I desperately need.
Maybe an affirmation will—
My phone buzzes, so I fish it out of my purse on the passenger seat while keeping my eyes on the road. It’s an unknown number. I don’t like using my phone while driving, but something tells me to answer. I tap the speaker button.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Sienna?” a crisp female voice greets me.
“Uh-huh.”
“This is Miranda from By the Bay Property Management. I’m glad I caught you before you arrived. I’m afraid we’ve had to put a freeze on all new hires for now. I’m so sorry, but we won’t be able to move forward with your interview today. As soon as we open the position back up, I’ll let you know.”
My heart is unraveling, but I force my voice to sound cheerful. “Oh, okay. Thanks for letting me know. Um, when do you think the position will open again?”
“At least six months. We’ve had to do some restructuring. It came from corporate this morning.”
I want to laugh because the owner of the record store used the same business-speak: “Sorry, Sienna. I need to restructure the store and figure out how to secure the bottom line for future growth.”
Honestly, I think he Googled those phrases five minutes before I arrived for my shift, but regardless, ‘restructure’ is just a stupid way of saying “we’re firing a bunch of people to save money.”
“Okay,” I tell Miranda. “Thanks.”
“Take care.”
Instead of turning around and heading home, I drive until I hit a beach parking lot, one of the few free places to park in this overpriced city. Then I gaze at the peaceful ocean and give myself permission to mess up my mascara.
I wipe my tears with the inside of my white blouse because I have zero fucks to give right now. What is wrong with this week? I’m used to hitting walls in my life—massive ones—but why so many all at once? I’ve needed just one tiny win for so long that it’s getting harder and harder to hold on to hope.
With my mascara thoroughly ruined, I wilt into my seat, exhausted. Maybe Jada is right and I should see Declan as an ‘in.’ I just don’t like the thought of owing him something or creating a connection. I was too willing to play along during phone sex. To have him control me, take over.
If I let him, would he take over my life?
I let a man do that once and nearly died, so why am I still like this? Why am I so needy for belonging that I want to give up myself? I don’t know Declan, so trusting him this quickly is stupid. And dangerous.
I let out a frustrated sigh. Those contacts of his are pretty amazing…
Dammit, I don’t know what to do about that man.
I can’t keep sitting here in limbo—at least I know that. Since I’ve allowed myself a few moments to feel pathetic, I should get back to job hunting. I’ll worry about Declan and my art program later. First, I need some income.
And I need a good mantra to get me moving. I decide on: Life is designed to knock you down. What matters is getting back up.
I repeat that mantra even though I feel my nose stinging and my eyes ready to spill more tears.
What matters is getting back up.
Just get back up.
I just need to—
My phone buzzes again, but only once. A text? For a brief, foolish moment, I want it to be Declan. I wish I would stop thinking about that man. I asked him not to text, so if he did, that would be disrespecting me.
I’m sure it’s not him.
I hate that I hope it is.
I pick up my phone to read the message.
And step right into a nightmare.
Every vein in my body turns to ice.
Unknown Number: Found you. Missed you, Magpie.
No. No no no no no.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. All I can do is stare at the words on the screen, my hands shaking so badly I nearly drop my phone. Only one person has ever called me ‘Magpie’ and I got him out of my life seven years ago.
I finally did the right thing and turned myself in, got a plea deal in exchange for evidence they could use against my ex and his boss. He’s supposed to be in jail right now with a 30-year sentence.
This isn’t happening. I was careful. I did everything Witness Protection told me to do, even after they abandoned me.
Buzz.
Another text from the number that has a Chicago area code: You been enjoying the ocean?
I toss my phone on the passenger seat and whip my head around, searching. He couldn’t be here, right? In the parking lot? Now?
Doesn’t fucking matter. He found me.
I turn the key until my car rumbles to life, then I shift gears and slam on the gas. Tires squeal as I back up. They squeal again after I shift to drive and zoom out of the parking lot. A car narrowly misses hitting me as I steer onto the street without stopping. Thankfully, San Francisco is a lawless city in many ways—the streets are so narrow and cramped that people do whatever the fuck they want while driving, and cops usually don’t care.
I run a few red lights, skid down a few hills, and I’m home way too fast. But I need to be. I need to pack. I need to run.
My entire body is shaking as I throw open the front door, my heart hammering so fast it’s hard to swallow. My sudden appearance startles Mystical, who is sitting on the couch. He yelps and whips his head to stare at me like I’m a robber.
“Sorry,” I say quickly, darting past him to my room.
The first thing I do is yank open a drawer on my desk and grab a small journal inside. I flip to the front page, which is a packing list I made for emergencies after the last time I tried unsuccessfully to contact my WITSEC handler. The man disappeared off the face of the earth.
I knew if shit went down, I’d have zero help and I’d struggle to think, so I’m grateful I had the foresight to make this list. All I need to do is go through the steps and get out of here.
Maybe I’ll drive to Mexico. Canada? Everyone flees to Mexico when they’re on the run, so maybe Canada is a better option.
I’m getting ahead of myself. Pack first.
Taking a breath that’s not very calming, I grab a plastic bag hidden in the back of my desk drawer. It has all of Sienna’s credentials: her fake birth certificate, passport, an extra ID from a different state. Her fake history. It also has a slip of paper with the protocol I’m supposed to follow:
1. Do not engage or respond to the contact.
2. Immediately inform a WITSEC handler of the threat.
3. Avoid locations or routines the contact may know about.
4. Be prepared for possible relocation.
5. Follow all additional instructions given by a handler.
Well, it would be a great plan if WITSEC was still an option.
Two years after they moved me to Utah, my handler stopped calling to check in. Shortly after that, I swore someone was stalking me. The same hooded figure kept popping up everywhere, and I kept having nightmares of a pair of watchful red eyes observing my every move.
I followed protocol and called my handler to report it. The woman who answered said my handler wasn’t available, and she took a message. Someone was supposed to call back ASAP.
They never did.
When I tried again, they said my handler didn’t exist—no one by that name was a marshal—and they couldn’t find my case file. I was continually told they were looking into the error and that someone would call, but all I got was silence.
That’s when I knew something shady was happening and I was on my own.
I no longer felt safe in Utah, so I packed up a bag and fled to San Francisco; luckily, my stalker didn’t follow.
I slip the paper with the protocol back into the baggie, then grab my luggage from the closet. I start going down the list.
Clothes. I change clothes; stuff some in the luggage. Toiletries. Laptop. An extra pair of shoes. A few favorite books. All of my emergency cash, which is only three hundred. A keepsake box from my years here living with Jada.
I choke back a sob.
Jada.
I’m never going to see her again. How did I not know this morning was goodbye forever?
No.
Focus on packing; cry later.
When I get to the end of the list, I grab my cherished watercolor paints and some brushes, along with two sketchbooks and a journal. I pause when I notice the small color study painting I did of my ‘inspired’ charcoal drawing. I wanted to do a large painting of it and make that my final semester project.
Well, my semester is clearly over—I’ll miss finals, fail, and get stuck paying back the loans with nothing to show for it.
I grab the color study. It’s not on the list, but I can’t leave it. It’s a small canvas, so I stuff it, along with the folded charcoal drawing, into my luggage, zipping it shut.
I touch my collarbone, ensuring my silver locket is where it belongs. Finally, I take a moment to survey my room. My home. This has been Sienna’s only home, here with Jada. We’ve gone through a few temporary roommates, including Mystical, but it’s mostly just been us.
I cycle through the memories: Me and Jada hanging out at the beach, flirting with guys at bars and then leaving without them, watching movies late into the night, complaining about work or life and then making ourselves feel better with chocolate. Borrowing each other’s clothes and just…just being dumb single twenty-year-olds having fun, even though we’re broke as fuck.
I love this cluttered, creaky old room and all the bad paintings spilling out of the closet.
I love this home that’s choking on plants.
I love my best friend.
My hand shakes as I wipe away a few thick, hot tears and curse under my breath. I really don’t want to do this. But I have to. Anthony already knows I’m in San Francisco, so I can’t wait around for him to show up at the door.
He’ll hurt Jada and Mystical.
I need to lead him away from here. Far away.
Breaking protocol number one so I can try to get him to leave San Francisco, I send the bastard a text: Thanks for the warning. I’m already leaving the city.
His response comes a second later: Go ahead, baby. You know I’ll find you.
Fuck. Him.
With one last gut-wrenching look, I turn and exit my bedroom.
Mystical immediately stands when he sees the luggage. Breaking his vow of silence, he asks, “What’s going on?”
I walk to the front door, already feeling washed out. Like someone is slowly removing me from the canvas of this living room.
I shake my head at Mystical. “Um, I can’t…it’s…”
He moves closer, red robes swishing around him as he gives me a concerned look. “Seriously, what’s up? You okay?”
I inhale sharply to force the grittiness from my voice. “Tell Jada I love her please. I have to leave and I can’t explain. But tell her I’m so thankful for everything and I love her. I’ll miss her. She’s the only person who’s ever cared about me and—” My voice cracks, so I clear my throat. “I probably can’t text, but if I can one day, I will. Tell her that please.”
His eyes widen. “Wait. What—”
“I have to go. I’ll miss you, too.” I pull him into a firm hug, my stomach churning like I’m going to throw up. “I’ve loved getting to know you. You’re a fun roommate. I want both of you to have a great life. Just be happy and…Tell Jada I love her so much please. Tell her that.” I open the door quickly.
“No. Hey, what—”
I shut the door and hurry down the stairs to the sidewalk. He opens it to call after me, but I’m already gone.