33 Kimmy
Margaret and I sat side-by-side on her couch. The letter from the attorney was on the table between us, anchored by a mug of tea. I'd read it a million times, but I felt like every time I did it again, I found something new.
I wasn't very versed in legal jargon and had to Google half of its contents to understand what was written between the lines.
It'd been a few days since I called Seven about this matter, and I was starting to get worried that he wouldn't come through. My anxiety level was so high that I'd cancelled all my upcoming sessions with Dr. Chen.
When she'd asked me if I was okay, I'd told her I had a family situation to deal with.
"Forty-two thousand, plus legal and medical, plus punitive, to be determined by the court," Margaret re-read the paragraph.
Her hands shook in her lap. "Forty-two thousand," she repeated.
Her voice made a jump on the first syllable.
"I can't pay that. They know I can't pay that.
And for what? For a dent on a rear bumper? "
"They know, Mom," I agreed. "And I am sorry you have to deal with this."
She was silent, working the skin between her fingers. "I know I'm getting old. Maybe I don't drive as well as I used to. But it wasn't my fault. The other driver did it on purpose. He had no one in front of him."
"Mom, it totally wasn't."
I reached over and patted her knee, which felt brittle under my palm. "We'll get it sorted," I said. I tried to sound casual like this wasn't a big deal of a situation for me to fix, but my throat was tight. "I know someone who can help." I shouldn't have shared this little fact with
Margaret.
Her head came up. Her eyes were red but hopeful. "You do?"
"Yeah. She's a lawyer. Not fancy, but a bulldog. She'll tear this apart. I already sent her some of the documents to look at."
The lie came out so smoothly I almost didn't notice it. Seven was supposed to dig into this. That's all I knew. I expected he'd find something in the chain of fraud that would clear my mother. But I couldn't say any of that. Not to Margaret.
She exhaled, a long, trembling breath, and her shoulders dropped back into a natural position. "Oh, honey. Thank you. I just… I can't do this myself. I'm too tired. I don't want to bother Katrina too much. She's so busy with the new job, and Jazz got that thing with his back again…"
"I'll handle it. Tell her not to worry about it."
My sister was too smart. She'd already figured out Margaret was out of sorts last time they spoke on the phone.
As always Margaret downplayed the accident when telling about it to my sister.
I was glad. Involving Katrina could be bad.
She'd start asking too many questions, and that would potentially put Seven in jeopardy.
At least, that's how my mind worked at the moment.
The logical part of my brain knew that he was too good to be found out.
But I'd been in constant fear for him, terrified that something would happen.
He was a human after all. Well, more like a superhuman, but still.
"She gets so stressed on those business trips," Margaret spoke, referring to Katrina's fear of flying. And for once that fear worked in my favor.
"That's exactly why you did the right thing, Mom. She'll be even more worried."
"All my girls are grown up now," Margaret said lovingly. "I feel bad for bothering you now that you have your own lives."
"Don't ever think like that," I countered. "We're going to take care of you always." I will take care of you, Mom. Always.
Margaret gently touched my hand. "You'd better go. It's getting late, and you've got work in the morning."
"I'll walk you to your room first," I said, and she didn't argue.
She let me help her.
Back in the living room, I shoved the letter into my bag.
Outside, it was fully dark. The porch light flickered as I walked to my car.
The air was thick and cold, the kind of cold that stuck to your skin even after you got inside.
I wondered why the weather this spring had been so strange.
It should have been getting warmer but the temperature had dropped.
I was two seconds from pulling out of the driveway when my phone buzzed. I put it into speaker mode.
"Hey, stranger," Katrina said.
"What's up?" My sister hardly ever called me.
"So I talked to Mom about the accident again," she began, her tone brisk, efficient. "She mentioned some legal thing, but I couldn't get any information out of her. She swears you're handling it. Jazz and I are both out of town and we can't come over. Is she okay?"
"She's fine." I stared out at the street. "She's just shaken. Don't worry about it, Kat. I've got it covered."
"What do you mean?" Katrina wasn't a person you could easily placate. "It's Mom we're talking about."
"It's under control," I said, a little sharper than I intended. "Really. I have an attorney friend. She's already taking care of it, so you don't need to do anything." Again, the lie came out easily.
There was a beat of silence on the line. "Since when are you the one in charge?" she asked.
Since I'm the one who lives close by, I wanted to say.
Instead, I supplied, "I'm not in charge.
I just happen to know someone who can help.
She said it's an easy fix. Please, I beg you, don't stress Mom out right now even more.
She's already on her last nerve. If we continue to discuss this, it'll just have her blood pressure go haywire.
And we don't want too many cooks stirring the pot.
Let's just have my friend deal with the case. "
Katrina sighed loudly. "You should have called Rachel, sis."
"I will take care of this," I insisted, my voice firmer than usual. Rachel's seniority didn't mean shit. She was always busy and she lived three hours away from the city.
"If you say so."
"I promise, I'm on it."
"You need to keep me updated. I'll go see Mom when I'm back."
"Just make sure not to upset her, okay?"
"Alright," she growled into the phone, and I ended the call after saying a quick goodnight.
Then I forced myself to breathe, started the engine, and let the night swallow me up on my way to my apartment.
I took the long way home, just to make sure I wasn't being followed. The city was half dead at this hour as I veered from one side street to another, circling blocks.
When I pulled into the parking lot of my complex, I killed the engine and just sat in the driver's seat.
The adrenaline from the events of the last few days had burned down to a numb ache.
My head throbbed behind the eyes. My chest was tight.
I watched the rearview for a full minute before I dared to move.
The elevator up to my floor was out. It'd been two days since someone broke it by trying to move a bed. Idiots needed to use the freight but I guess they didn't want to bother with taking the furniture to the other end of the building.
I took the stairs, one hand on the pepper spray, the other hand locked into a fist while my bag dangled from my shoulder.
At my door, I paused to catch my breath. Then I unlocked it and stepped inside.
Everything looked normal. The under-counter light from the kitchen I left on splashed over the tile and hit the edge of the kitchen table. My Adidas sneakers were where I'd kept them, curled together like two dead cats. The air was chilly, and there was a familiar low hum from the fridge.
I kicked the door closed and let my bag drop to the floor. I stood for a second in the semi-darkness before tossing my keys in the bowl.
Only then did I notice the shadow across the way, sitting on the couch, bleeding into the background.
I stopped breathing, and my whole body went cold.
My reaction was instant. I dashed over to the kitchen counter and grabbed the first thing I saw—a chef's knife from the holder.
The silhouette didn't move but spoke, "Put the knife down."
The voice was unmistakable. It took me a second to believe it. Then my legs almost gave out as I walked over to the couch.
"Jesus fuck," I whispered. My hand was shaking, and I set the knife on the coffee table. "What are you doing here? And how did you get in?" I released a tiny laugh and added, "Stupid question for someone of your occupation, right?"
He stood up, took a step toward me, rounding the coffee table, and pausing right where the moonlight filtered into the room through the window illuminating his body a little.
Black hoodie, dark jeans, boots. The lower half of his face was covered with the bandana.
But the eyes—gray and sharp—looked right at me.
I felt it in my bone marrow, that penetrating gaze. But instead of feeling all the normal things—like fear—a woman should feel when a strange man breaks into her apartment, I felt my stomach flutter.
"Sorry," Seven said, and it sounded almost genuine. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"You didn't answer my question. What are you doing here?"
He didn't say anything at first. He walked to the window, checked the street below, pulled the curtains together, then strode back to me. "We have to go. Now."
My mind hiccupped. "What do you mean?"
"You don't have much time, Kimmy. Pack the essentials and the documents. No more than you can carry."
I stared at him, blinking.
He reached into his pocket and handed me an envelope. I looked inside. Plane ticket. With Margaret's name, spelled correctly, with a flight out of LAX at 5:50 PM. Tomorrow. To Nassau.
"What the hell is this?" I stared at the ticket, then at him.
He didn't blink. "Your mother is going to the Bahamas."
My laugh came out as a choke. "You've got to be kidding me."
He moved fast, so fast I didn't have enough time to react.
He closed the gap and took my hand—gently, but his grip was iron.
The leather of his glove felt cool and smooth on my skin, and I remembered what it felt like when he didn't wear it the night of the stabbing.
I remembered how warm and slightly calloused his skin was, how comfortable.