7. Harper
SEVEN
HARPER
He fucking found me.
I ran all the way home, only stopping to pick up the abandoned messenger bag before I darted down new pathways. I took a route I’d never taken before, trying to make sure I wasn’t making an easy target of myself. Hell, I’d taken classes on this shit, for fuck’s sake.
And here I was, playing amateur hour.
Seven years. I’d been in hiding for seven fucking years. And in the span of one day, it was all down the drain. I forced myself to take a shower once I’d cleared my apartment, room by room, like the star of some cop drama. Had to make sure some part of my routine was stable, or I’d crumble and fall apart.
After the shower, I opened my window and let in some cool night air to soothe my frayed nerves as I paced across my room and made a game plan.
The go bag I’d packed years ago sat on the floor of my closet, long ago abandoned when the security of my new life had set in, and I’d thought myself safe.
It was time to break her out again.
I’d tapped into the spare cash once or twice, but I’d also added to the bag—a burner phone, some spare clothes, three fresh stacks of twenty dollar bills, a fake ID, some colored contacts, and a wig. All of it would come in handy escaping this fucking place.
After the near-death experience, I let my hair color grow back in, hoping that nobody would recognize me. I’d always been a dyed blonde, but it felt refreshing not to have to spend a bunch of money on the upkeep. Plus, I didn’t have access to my money anymore.
Tapping my mama’s money would have been a red flag parade.
My life had changed so drastically after the new beginning. I’d had to learn to do so many things for myself that others had always handled. I felt like a fucking baby deer, stumbling about on legs too long for my tiny body. But eventually, through online instructional videos and some trial and error, I learned how to fly solo. I learned things ordinary people learned as kids.
I was a new woman. A poor, working-class woman.
At first, I hated it. The novelty had worn off now that I was living this life out of necessity. After a while, I took some classes and, by sheer chance, discovered that I was good at mechanic work. For the last four years, I worked in Big John’s third bay, my hands deep in grease and oil as Hannah Flagg, the quiet, antisocial chick with no friends. I dated around until I realized there was no point.
The Blackwood boys had ruined me all those years ago. And now, three guys with skeleton face paint were hunting me down behind my workplace, talking about a hit.
And they recognized me.
Back in Khula City, I’d been well known. My face couldn’t go a week without being featured in some newspaper somewhere, or one of those fucking rags that the corner zine hawkers peddled. But with my hair back to its natural black and my eyes a different color, it should have been nearly impossible to recognize me.
And their voices sounded familiar, like I’d heard them before.
But where?
As I stormed through my room, searching for essential things to take with me on the run, I wracked my brain trying to piece it together. I knew one of them had mentioned another’s name, but my mind hadn’t been focused on their small talk. I was more focused on escaping.
Why had they let me go?
I could have been dead. They had me exactly where they wanted me. I couldn’t have escaped them had I wanted to. I was two steps away from being raped and killed and who knew what else. The killers around here weren’t known for their mercy kills, that was for damn sure .
Frustration built until I was pacing back and forth in front of my mirror. Angry, tired, and on edge, I punched the fucking wall beside it, leaving a fair-sized dent that would no doubt cost me a pretty penny in my deposit. I yanked the towel from the edge of my chair and marched to the window, trying desperately to focus on anything else. The sky at night. The cool wind that signaled an incoming spring storm. The cars in the parking lot?—
Fuck.
Fuck.
Sitting in the spot that was reserved for my neighbor’s apartment was that fucking Vanta Black Torino. Exhaust fumes trickled from the rear, curling in the night air, the low rumble a telltale sign the engine was running. He’d turned off his lights, but I could see the moving figure of one man in the front. I’d like to say there weren’t more with him, but I couldn’t be sure. They could be in the backseat, hiding to lull me into a false sense of security. Or they could be on their way up the stairs now, their knives at the ready.
Fuck, they knew where I lived.
They could be ready to break into my apartment even now.
Maybe they would come in from the fire escape.
I moved to lock the windows that faced the fire escape, then doubled back and locked the rest of them, too. I liked to sleep with one or two open, to let in some fresh air, but I couldn’t take that risk now.
I’d rather sweat to death than let them have an easy in.
The shakes set in as I set down my towel, and though I fought against them, there was no point. I could no more avoid the oncoming panic attack than I could stop breathing on my own. My body wasn’t about to let me off that easy. So I sat down in the corner, one strap of my tank top slipping off my shoulder, hair still dripping down my back, as the tears started. Then came the heart racing, making me feel like I’d run a marathon. And soon, the shortness of breath, the palpitations .
I clocked each symptom of my panic attack as they reared their ugly head, trying to will them away as I ticked them off like a checklist, knowing each time what would come next. When the sweats started, I sobbed in agony and fell over on the floor, laying there in a puddle of tears and soaked hair and sadness, wishing my body and my mind would just give me a fucking break already. Just one moment of this day needed to be easy for me.
But it never was.
I must’ve fallen asleep in that position, frozen in place, paralyzed by fear, because wherever this was, it couldn’t be real.
I stood in an old playground, too big for the kids in the center of it. Their faces were hidden from me, and as I reached out my hand to tap them on the shoulders, I realized with a start I was thinner than normal.
A quick glance at my body told me all I needed to know.
This has to be a fucking dream.
Teenage me stood in the center of the old, rundown playground with three boys whose backs were turned to me, laughing quietly amongst themselves. They sounded familiar but not; their voices blurred at the edges, like someone talking through a phone with bad static or yelling from the other side of a tunnel.
I knew those voices, but from where?
The boys started to move, and I gasped, realizing I’d be left behind if I didn’t move. But my feet wouldn’t go, wouldn’t carry me after them. They simply refused to go.
I sobbed again, a mournful sound filled with regret and longing, agony and loneliness. My body jerked forward and I fell to my knees, the painful landing sending a jolt up my legs and into my spine .
The boys had stopped in the distance, their laughter quiet now, their bodies turned to me. But their faces?—
Their faces were blurry, worse than an old nineties motion photograph. I wanted to close my eyes and open them again; maybe I was the one who couldn’t see clearly. But I knew that wouldn’t change a thing. They’d still be slightly out of focus. This was my mind playing tricks on me, like a cruel jest. I hadn’t been able to place the men from earlier, and now it would taunt me with the just-out-of-reach knowledge of their identities.
My brain was a fucking prick sometimes. There was no call for it to rebel on me like this, taunting me even in sleep. But here we were, and I was no closer to answers than I had been when I was awake.
One of the boys looked at me, the effect jarring thanks to the unfocused look on their face. I winced, physically recoiling from the ghost of my past. My feet still wouldn’t work, refusing to let me move, and I knelt there on the ground as he closed the space between us, reaching for me as a scream ripped itself from my throat when a knife appeared, and the face came into focus, the running grease paint of a skull running down his face?—
I jerked awake, sweat pouring off my brow. I was drenched to the bone and panting like I’d run a mile and a half in the middle of the summer. I couldn’t catch my breath; my heart was racing still, and I felt faint, though I’d only just woken up from a round of sleep.
Great, the panic attack was still in full swing.
What was it that therapist had said? Rules of threes. Find three things you can see, three things you can hear, three things you can feel. Or something like that.
I had to ground myself.
Let’s try this shit. I closed my eyes and willed my ears to work. They refused, the only sound the pounding of the blood in my veins. Okay, fine; touch first, then. I twitched my fingers in the carpet, relishing the feel of soft shag beneath my skin .
Okay, the carpet. I can feel the carpet. What’s next? I pinched myself on the leg, yelping when the skin recoiled and the pain set in. Okay, pain. I can feel pain. That’s good, at least. I turned my head to the side and felt the cool air from an open window on my face. Three, fresh air. I can feel fresh air on my skin ? —
Open window.
But I’d closed and locked them all when I’d come in my room to prep my go-bag.
The panic shot up from a five to a fifty in the span of a heartbeat as I curled in on myself and scanned the room with my eyes, praying I didn’t see some unidentifiable shadow in the corner or something. I tipped my head a little and spotted the window on my bedroom wall—it was closed. That left only a few windows, and I’d have to leave the safety of my room to identify the open one and seal it again.
And really, what good would it do me? Clearly, the damn locks wouldn’t keep out the men determined to kill me.
Why hadn’t they killed me while I was asleep, though?
Had I forgotten a window? Had I really been meticulous in making sure they were all closed? Could I have sleepwalked and opened one in the middle of that nightmare?
It wasn’t likely.
As a last resort, an attempt to make myself feel safer, I grabbed the baseball bat beside my bedroom door, hoisting it over my shoulder in preparation to knock someone out, should I have the chance. They could be outside my bedroom door right now, waiting for me in the dark.
Curse my habit of turning the lights out when I went to bed.
Forcing myself to suck in a breath, I took a step toward the door, opening it the rest of the way with slow precision. I was prepared for anything, or so I told myself.
Stepping into that living room area was like the purest form of torture. If I survived tonight, I’d check myself into the emergency room just to make sure I wasn’t having a heart attack. The steady drumming of said organ echoed loudly in my ears as I stepped behind the couch, scanning the room as I flipped a light on.
Nothing.
There were no boogeymen in the living room, nor the kitchen. But the fuckers had been in my house, that much was certain.
Sitting on the kitchen counter was an empty glass with my knife from earlier beside it. The one I’d left in the alley in my mad dash to escape.
The knife that only they could have brought me.
A sharpie sat open on the counter next to the knife, weighing down a hastily scrawled message on a piece of paper ripped from my wall calendar.
Sorry, July. Guess we’re not celebrating you this year.
I read the message aloud to the room, knowing they were gone but needing to hear anything, even myself, to ground my mental state.
"We’re not done with you. Be seeing you soon. N." My brows furrowed as I reread the ominous and vague words, wishing the second or third read-through would give me anything—a clue I’d missed, maybe words I skimmed over.
Nothing.
The coffee pot sat abandoned in the corner of my counter, so I started her up, knowing damn well I wasn't about to get any sleep tonight. The least I could do was caffeinate myself and be productive.
I might not be able to sleep, but I could plan.
Fuckers wouldn’t catch me slipping twice.