CHAPTER 22
Angela’s POV:
The rhythmic, low-frequency hum of our old refrigerator was usually the loudest sound in our apartment after midnight, a comforting, mundane anchor that kept the late-night silence from feeling too vast. But tonight, that silence was utterly obliterated.
I stood frozen in the doorway of the living room, my bare feet sinking into the frayed edges of the hallway rug.
The room was dark, save for the violent, flickering blue-and-white glare cast by the television screen.
The artificial light washed over the worn fabric of our sofa, casting long, distorted shadows across the framed family photos on the wall.
My mother, Monica, was sitting on the edge of her cushion, her posture completely rigid, her hands pressed tightly over her mouth.
She didn't even turn to look at me when the floorboards creaked beneath my weight.
Her eyes were locked onto the screen, wide and reflecting a horrific, chaotic scene playing out in real-time.
"Mom?" I whispered, my voice sounding small, tentative, and heavy with the natural hesitation of an introvert who hated being pulled into sudden, unscripted moments. "What’s going on? Why are you still up?"
She didn't answer. She only lifted a trembling finger, pointing it toward the television.
My gaze shifted to the screen, and the air immediately left my lungs. The bold, crimson banner scrolling across the bottom of the screen read: brEAKING NEWS: FATAL SHOOTING AT MANHATTAN STARBUCKS. ONE CONFIRMED DEAD, MULTIPLE INJURIES.
The broadcast cut away from the flashing red-and-blue emergency lights of the active crime scene, replacing the image with a stark, low-resolution mugshot that made my stomach violently churn.
Malik Brown.
His name was plastered right beneath his photograph in bold, unforgiving letters.
The anchor’s voice was crisp, professional, and entirely detached from the human wreckage she was describing.
"New York Police are currently searching for this man, identified as Malik Brown, and three unidentified associates who opened fire outside a crowded coffee shop downtown late this afternoon.
Witnesses describe a targeted, execution-style ambush.
One young woman, identified as twenty-three-year-old Terra Gordon, was pronounced dead at the scene after sustaining multiple gunshot wounds to the chest... "
"Terra..." The name slipped from my lips like a shard of broken glass.
My mind spun backward, desperately trying to map the name to the fragments of stories Miley had shared with me during our quiet moments.
The roommate. The girl Miley lived with.
The one who had been a constant, grounding presence in her world while she navigated the chaotic, high-stakes gauntlet of her E-Tech internship.
Before my brain could fully process the connection, the live feed on the screen cut abruptly to a remote broadcast outside St. Luke’s Hospital. The camera was jostling, fighting through a dense, aggressive crowd of local reporters and onlookers.
"We are coming to you live from the emergency wings of St. Luke’s," the reporter shouted over the deafening ambient noise of the crowd.
"Where sources confirm the victims were transported.
We are just now seeing Helisa, the tech billionaire and CEO of E-Tech, exiting the private security entrance... "
The camera zoomed in, panning across a phalanx of burly, dark-suited security guards pushing their way through the flashing chaos of paparazzi lenses. And there, walking directly beneath the heavy, protective arm of a stern-faced woman I recognized as Ciara, was Miley.
My heart shattered right inside my chest.
It was Miley Palmer, but she looked entirely unmade.
The confident, brilliant, effortlessly charismatic girl who had been walking beside me in Central Park just a day ago—the girl who had worn those perfectly tailored corporate trousers and laughed with an easy, infectious Harlem swagger—was completely gone.
Her long box braids were disheveled, clinging to the damp skin of her cheeks.
Her face was pale, glistening with a frantic, unbroken sheet of tears under the harsh, white glare of the camera lights.
She was doubled over slightly as she walked, her hands clutching her stomach as if she had been physically hollowed out by a blade.
Her signature E-Tech blazer was rumpled, the cuffs stained with a dark, ominous smear.
"Oh my god," Monica gasped, her hands dropping from her face as she finally looked up at me, her eyes brimming with a deep, maternal panic. "Angela... isn't that Miley? Our Miley?"
"Yeah," I choked out, the word getting caught in the dry, suffocating tightness of my throat.
I couldn't move. My feet felt like they were cemented to the floorboards.
The contrast was too brutal, too violent for my mind to reconcile.
Just yesterday, we were sitting beneath the sprawling canopy of a willow tree in the park.
Max, my cat, had been curled up on her lap, purring softly as Miley stroked his fur, her eyes sparkling with an intoxicating, bright hope for the future.
I believe she had just signed her life-changing contract.
She was supposed to be celebrating. She was supposed to be untouchable.
How could things go downhill this fast? How could a world go from absolute victory to blood-soaked asphalt in a matter of hours?
"Give me the phone," Monica said frantically, her fingers already scrambling across the coffee table to grab her cell phone. "I’m calling her right now. This is insane. That poor baby... she looks like she’s about to faint on national television."
Monica pressed the phone to her ear, the digital screen illuminating the deep lines of worry on her face. I stood there, listening to the agonizing, rhythmic silence of the room, waiting for the sound of a connection.
One ring. Two rings.
"We’re sorry, the subscriber you are trying to reach is unavailable or..."
Monica let out a sharp, frustrated sigh, lowering the device. "Straight to voicemail. She probably has her ringer off, or the security teams took it. Angela, try hitting her up on Instagram or something. You guys are always on those apps. See if she responds to you."
With trembling fingers, I pulled my own phone from the pocket of my pajama pants.
My hands were shaking so violently I misspelled her username twice before her profile finally popped up.
Her profile picture—a bright, beautiful selfie of her smiling in front of the E-Tech logo—felt like a ghost from a different century.
I opened our direct messages. The last text from her was a playful emoji she had sent after our walk, a tiny token of a connection that had made my introverted heart flutter with a quiet, secret hope.
I began to type, my thumb hovering over the glass as I struggled to find words that wouldn't feel completely useless in the face of absolute tragedy.
Angela: Miley, I just saw the news. I am so, so incredibly sorry. I don't even know what to say, but please know I'm here. Are you okay? Where are you? Please text me when you can.
I hit send. The little gray circle appeared next to the message, indicating it had been delivered.
I sat down on the floor next to my mother's knees, my eyes glued to the screen, watching for that tiny, life-altering indicator that she was typing, or even just a "Read" receipt to prove she was still breathing.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then twenty.
The blue light of the television continued to wash over us, broadcasting repetitive loops of the crime scene tape, the flashing sirens, and the cold, static image of Malik’s face. The silence in our apartment returned, heavier now, suffocating and thick with an unbearable anxiety.
"She’s not answering, Mom," I whispered, resting my chin against my knees, the weight of my own introverted helplessness pressing down on my chest like a physical stone.
I wanted to run across the city. I wanted to storm into St. Luke’s Hospital and push past the guards just to hold her hand. But I knew my own nature; I knew how easily I froze when the world got loud, and right now, Miley’s world was the loudest, most terrifying place on earth.
Monica reached down, her warm, calloused hand gently resting on my shoulder, giving it a soft, reassuring squeeze.
"Don't force it right now, Angela. If she’s at the hospital with the police and her executives, her mind is in a million different pieces. Give her space to breathe tonight. Call her in the morning. When the sun comes up, the noise dies down a little bit. That’s when she’s going to need a real friend to answer the line. "
I looked down at my phone one last time, the screen fading to black, leaving only my own pale, anxious reflection staring back at me. "Yeah," I murmured softly, my heart aching with a profound, terrifying depth of feeling I was too scared to name out loud. "I’ll call her in the morning."
***
The sun didn't bring warmth; it only brought a cold, stark clarity that made the events of the previous night feel entirely real. I hadn't slept for more than an hour, my mind locked in a relentless loop of Miley’s tear-stained face flashing on the television screen.
At exactly seven-thirty in the morning, I sat on the edge of my bed, the mattress spring creaking softly in the quiet room.
Max, my white tabby cat, slinked into the room, his soft fur brushing against my ankles as he let out a low, inquisitive meow.
Usually, his presence was enough to ground me, to soothe the high-wired anxiety that came with being an introvert in a world that never stopped shouting.
But today, even his rhythmic purr couldn't quiet the frantic beating of my heart.
I picked up my phone, my thumb hovering over Miley’s name in my contacts list. My throat felt incredibly dry. I took a deep, shaky breath, closed my eyes, and pressed the dial button.