Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Mina
The rest of the brunch date with Sabrina goes by in a blur with her carrying the entire conversation while I nod and stew, flip-flopping between being certain he knows who I am and questioning whether I’m reading into the entire thing.
If he knew, he wouldn’t have left his sister alone with me, would he? I wouldn’t. Hell, I barely trust myself as it is.
The questions and doubts follow me out of the café as we both hug our goodbyes and go our separate ways. The streets are quiet, save for the occasional person walking here and there.
The memory of Leo watching me, sitting so close as I breathed the same air as him, sits heavy at the back of my mind. It’s soured by thoughts that the police are going to show up to arrest me, or I’ll be put on blast online for everything I’ve done.
I don’t notice the hooded figure coming my way until my bag is yanked off my shoulder, and a shove sends me stumbling sideways with a ragged cry.
First comes the shock, then the realization.
In that split second, the entire contents of my bag flashes behind my eyes.
My keys, phone, wallet, cash, meds, ID, Kindle. Things I can’t afford to lose.
If he unlocks my phone, I’m done for. Every single one of my dirty secrets will be aired out, and there won’t be a single thing I can do to stop it.
Raw fear propels me to spin around and pursue him for my purse, but he’s sprinting down the street too fast for me to keep up.
I try to make chase. Yell at him to stop. Scream for help. Neither happens.
It gets harder to breathe with each bound of my sneakers against the pavement. The further away he gets, the more my eyes burn with tears until they’re streaming down my face. He’s nothing more than a blurry figure that turns down a street and disappears out of sight.
Nonononono. Fuck.
I push harder. I . . . I can’t lose my bag. I can’t. But he’s too far gone.
All my things—all the evidence. Everything. It’s in someone else’s hands.
I lean against a wall and press my trembling hand to my mouth to muffle my sob. I can’t get home. I can’t call anyone. I can’t pay for anything.
It’s all gone.
If Leo didn’t know the truth before, there’s a chance he could now.
“This one?” Officer I can’t remember his name asks, slowing down in front of my apartment.
I try to blink the blurriness out of my eyes to look out the window of the cruiser. “Um.” I didn’t even notice we made it onto my street. “Yeah.”
The window is dotted from the light drizzle of rain falling from the gray clouds above. It makes it appear like we’re almost upon dusk, rather than entering into the late afternoon.
A woman who witnessed my bag getting snatched approached me a few seconds before I started hysterically crying. She was kind enough to drop me off at the closest police station and gave them her number in case they wanted a statement from her.
Then I sat on their brutal plastic chair for hours, waiting for someone to talk to me about what happened. When they did, they remarked that bag snatching is an increasingly common occurrence, and I should feel lucky he didn’t take it further than that.
It didn’t make me feel any better.
The police must have taken pity on my train-wreck state because the detective offered to have an officer bring me home when I started crying that there was no one I could call.
Because there wasn’t.
Joyce is out of state. Mom would only make it worse. Dad would be working and would involve Mom. I could ask Sabrina, but I don’t exactly have her phone number memorized, and the risk of her learning my true identity is too great.
When I agreed to the detective’s offer, I didn’t realize it would take just as long for an officer to be freed up to take me home, and he shot me unsettling glances the entire ride. I could tell he thought I was being dramatic over a petty crime.
It’s not just the stolen bag, though. It’s the past year and how there’s always one more thing, and I’m also not about to admit that it’s because I might go down for something else.
When it rains, it pours. Death by a thousand paper cuts.
The cruiser comes to a stop, and the officer opens the door for me. I take a deep breath before pulling myself out onto my feet.
Droplets of rain drizzle down on me, catching onto my hair and dotting my glasses.
I usually love the smell of petrichor. There’s something warm about it, like it’s a free pass to stay in bed, protected while everything outside is miserable. The melancholy of it feels comfortable. More friend than foe.
Right now, it’s another paper cut. An assault on my already oversensitive senses. It’s cloying and sticky, another layer of grime, dirt over my grave.
There’s nothing welcoming about coming home to an empty apartment where my fear will haunt the space. Despite the hours I spent sitting and waiting, I’m no closer to figuring out what to do next.
I have a list of tasks a mile long and no idea where to start. I just want to sleep and forget any of this happened.
I swipe my sleeve over my glasses to get rid of the droplets covering the lenses. It smears the water into a blurry mess that I try to ignore as I mutter my thanks to the cop and drag my feet up the drive.
My brows furrow. The front door is ajar.
Joyce left for her cousin’s birthday before I woke up this morning, and she won’t be home until tonight. Did I . . . ? I rack my brain to try to remember whether I locked it this morning.
The answer is yes.
If I didn’t at least lock it, then I sure as fuck would have closed it. This isn’t the best neighborhood, and it isn’t the worst, but I’m not going to be dumb enough to leave the door open. I forget a lot of things, but never that. Unless . . .
My legs start moving before my head can catch up.
Every single possibility flashes through my mind, and the moment I shove the door wide, my worst fears prove true.
I stumble back, slamming my hand over my mouth.
It does nothing to stop my cry. Clothes and random junk are strewn around the living room.
The couch is upside down, the leg of the coffee table has been broken off and is lodged into the middle of my computer screen.
Shards of glass decorate the rug around the fallen TV.
My books are ripped up, the pages exploded around the room like feathers.
Joyce’s room is just as disastrous. My laptop is—
It’s not here.
My laptop isn’t fucking here.
No.
No.
The officer’s thundering steps slap against the brick porch.
“Stay outside—”
I dodge him and dart for my room, trying to remember whether I put my laptop on my bedside table or on the kitchen counter. Either way, it’s in neither of those places.
My stomach sinks below my feet as I survey my bedroom. The contents of my drawers are on the floor, so I can’t tell what else has been taken. Leo’s hoodie I left on my pillow, gone. The poster of Leo I stuck on the inside of my closet door, ripped.
The officer says something behind me, but I can’t hear him above the blood rushing through my ears and the scream lodged in my throat. Today wasn’t a bad stroke of luck.
I was targeted.