Chapter 3 #3
He just kept looking at me, waiting for something. When I didn’t deliver, he snorted and pushed away from the counter. His cup left a perfect ring, which would bother me all shift. “I’ll see you around,” he said. “It’s a small city.”
I was glad to see him go as I scrubbed the counter so hard it turned my knuckles white.
Polk was waiting for me at closing, like always, but tonight he was different. He’d shaved his beard—something I’d never seen before—and his face looked both softer and sadder without it. He finished locking up the back and walked me to the front, hands deep in his pockets.
“You good?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, though my stomach hurt from holding in all the things I wanted to say. “I’m fine.”
He grunted. “You know, Margie won’t fire you over Gwen. She likes you. Says you work hard.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t want to talk about Margie, or Gwen, or the man with the bad teeth and the worse intentions.
So I changed the subject. “Why’d you shave?”
He shrugged, uncomfortable. “Felt like something new. Wanted something new for summer, ya know?”
“Yeah,” I said, but I didn’t believe it.
Walking home that night felt different. Every light I passed seemed sharper, colder, as if the city were lit from within by something angry and searching.
The puddles reflected the streetlights in warped, sickly halos.
I walked fast, hands jammed deep into my jacket, the pepper spray hidden but ready.
I usually stopped at the corner store for milk or a candy bar, or just the feeling of being around other people for a few seconds.
Tonight I didn’t even slow down. I hugged the edge of the sidewalk, eyes flicking to every alley mouth, every car parked with its windows fogged.
The only sound was my own shoes squelching against the sidewalk.
When I hit the turn for my street, I risked a glance behind me. Nothing but empty asphalt, slick and shining. I let my breath out, forced myself to slow, to look less like prey.
That’s when he stepped out.
He’d been waiting, or maybe he’d followed me the whole way and I’d just been too rattled to notice. The man from the diner—windbreaker, sallow skin, hair plastered flat from the rain. He stood perfectly still at the mouth of the alley, eyes fixed on me, lips moving but no sound coming out.
I froze. My brain scrambled for options. Run? Scream? I looked up and down the block—no one, not a single window lit, the universe having politely excused itself from this scene.
He took a step toward me, then another. His feet made no sound on the wet concrete.
“Hey,” he called, too loud and too cheerful, the kind of voice someone would use to call over a dog.
I took a step back, then another. The distance between us shrank, even though I was sure I wasn’t moving toward him.
“Wait up,” he said, and his voice was different now, slower, as if he were savoring each word.
“Don’t,” I said, louder than I meant.
He grinned, wide and lazy. “Or what?”
I backed into the pool of a streetlight, letting it paint me in sickly yellow. “Just leave me alone,” I said.
He kept coming. “You’re not so tough,” he said. “I bet you taste sweet.”
The words made my skin crawl. Then he lunged, all at once, and I did what any sane person would do—I turned and ran.
I heard him behind me, feet slapping the pavement, a high, wet panting that sounded more animal than human.
My lungs burned, but fear made me run faster than I ever had.
I cut down a side street I didn’t know, then another, hoping to double back to the avenue or lose him in the maze of alleys.
But he was always just behind, always closing the gap.
My legs pumped. My breath shredded my chest. The buildings closed in, brick and fire escapes and windows covered with corrugated steel.
I saw a single light ahead, a weird splash of violet and black, glowing like a bruise in the air.
It didn’t belong—nothing in this neighborhood should look like that. But it was my only shot.
I sprinted for it. The man was only a dozen steps behind.
The building was squat, old, but the doors were new: painted black, trimmed with purple and silver, clean and untouched by the graffiti that scarred everything else. I grabbed the handle and yanked, half-expecting it to be locked. It wasn’t. The door swung open, and I threw myself inside.
The air hit me—warm, perfumed, so clean it made my eyes water. I slammed the door behind me and stumbled into the lobby. It was like nothing I’d ever seen: marble floors, tall mirrors, everything glowing under violet light. For a second, all I could do was blink.
I looked down at myself: hands raw from running, shirt soaked, heart hammering. The street outside was silent now. I saw the man’s shadow pass the window, then disappear.
Inside, I heard the thrum of music and the sound of my own breath. One of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen stood behind an ornate desk, tapping on some kind of screen and speaking frantically into a headset. She moved quickly towards me, her resonant accented voice filled my ears.
“You cannot be here.”