CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
KYE
The back door was not supposed to open.
The salon building had changed the code after Trell violated the restraining order the first time. My suite manager put a sign on the rear exit that said EMPLOYEES ONLY, and the door was supposed to lock the second it closed. I had tested it twice when I came in that morning.
At seven eighteen that night, I was alone in my suite wiping glue from the counter when I heard the metal latch lift in the hallway.
My last client had left ten minutes earlier. My mother had gone across the street for food after promising she would be back before I finished cleaning. The other stylist on my side of the building had canceled her evening appointments because her son was sick.
The hallway should have been empty.
I sat the spray bottle down without making a sound.
The camera feed stayed open on the tablet beside my register. A man in a dark hoodie stepped through the rear door and let it close behind him.
Even with his head lowered, I knew the walk.
My body recognized Trell before my mind finished saying his name.
He stopped outside my suite and looked directly into the camera.
Then, he smiled.
Not happy.
Not sorry.
The smile he used when he wanted me to know he had gotten around something I put between us.
I picked up my phone.
The suite door opened before I unlocked it.
“You always did take forever cleaning up,” he said.
I stood behind my chair with the counter between us. “You need to get the fuck out.”
“Can I speak first?”
“No.”
His smile disappeared. “Kyla.”
“I have an order. You know you can’t be here.”
“I know what the paper says.” He pushed the door shut behind him. “I came to talk to you, not hurt you.”
The lock clicked.
My heart started hitting too hard, but my voice stayed level. “Open the door and go.”
“You got my gun taken. You got police coming to my house. People at my job looking at me like I’m some type of woman beater.”
“You put your hands on me.”
“I grabbed you.”
“You shoved me into a dresser.”
“After you scratched my face.”
The part where his choice became something I made happen.
I slid one step toward the shampoo room. My phone was in my right hand, screen pressed against my thigh.
Trell noticed the movement. “Why you backing away?”
“Because I asked you to leave and you locked the door.”
“I locked it so whoever walking by don’t hear you making this into something.”
“It already is something.”
He took one step closer.
I took another back.
The shampoo room had a small supply closet with a solid door and a deadbolt my mother made the landlord install after the first report. My keys were clipped to my waistband. My plan was six feet away.
Trell’s eyes went to my phone.
“Who you calling?”
“Nobody.”
“Give it here.”
“No.”
His jaw shifted.
For one second, I saw the version of him who used to bring me breakfast and rub my feet after I stood behind the chair all day. My heart reached for that man out of habit.
Then, Trell moved around the styling chair and the man I missed disappeared.
I grabbed the metal rolling tray and shoved it between us. Combs, clips, and a bottle of mousse crashed across the floor.
He caught the edge before it hit him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
The noise bought me two seconds.
I ran into the shampoo room, slammed the closet door, and turned the deadbolt with both hands shaking.
Trell hit the other side before I stepped away.
“Kyla!”
I opened DAY ONES OR DIES.
KYE: BLUE LIGHT. SALON. BACK DOOR.
I dropped my location, then called 911.
The dispatcher answered while Trell hit the door again.
“911, where is your emergency?”
I gave the address quietly.
“What is happening?”
“My ex is inside my salon. I have a final restraining order. I’m locked in a supply closet.”
“Is he armed?”
“His gun was surrendered. I don’t know if he has another one.”
The truth made my mouth dry.
“Stay on the line. Do not come out. Officers are being sent.”
Trell stopped pounding.
Silence filled the other side.
That scared me worse.
I held the phone near my ear and listened.
A soft scrape.
The shampoo-room door opening farther.
Then, his voice, close to the closet.
“You called them?”
I did not answer.
“You really trying to get me locked up over a conversation?”
The dispatcher asked, “Can he hear me?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
Trell tried the knob slowly. “Open the door.”
I backed against the shelves. Boxes of gloves pressed into my shoulder. My knees shook hard enough that the bottles above me rattled.
“I’m not going to touch you,” he said. “I just need you to tell them you misunderstood.”
I stared at the deadbolt.
“Kye, you know me.”
I knew how his voice softened right before he wanted something. I knew how many times I had accepted calm as proof the danger passed. I knew he could sound hurt while standing on the other side of a door I had locked to get away from him.
“You got me looking crazy,” he said.
I finally answered, “You came through a back door to violate a restraining order. I ain’t make you look like nothing.”
His fist hit the door so hard, dust fell from the frame.
The dispatcher told me to stay quiet.
I put my hand over my mouth.
Trell cursed and walked away.
Through the wall, I heard the suite door open.
Then, a man shouted, “Security! Stop right there.”
Shoes pounded down the hallway.
The dispatcher said officers were entering the building.
I stayed inside.
A crash came from somewhere near the back exit, followed by two voices giving commands.
“Hands where I can see them!”
“Get on the ground!”
Trell yelled that he had not done anything.
The same sentence over and over.
I had not done anything.
I had not touched her.
I only wanted to talk.
The officers did not argue with him. They repeated the commands until his voice moved lower to the floor.
The dispatcher told me an officer would knock and identify himself.
Three knocks came a minute later.
“Camden County police. Kyla, you can stay where you are until you’re ready. The suspect is in custody.”
I unlocked the door and still could not make myself turn the knob. My hand would not work.
The officer did not rush me.
“We have him,” he said through the door. “Take your time.”
I thought about my mother carrying boxes into this suite. Jori studying under the dryer. Nae letting Amir spin in my chair until he almost threw up. Ari sitting in front of my mirror and asking whether she looked rushed.
This room belonged to my life.
Trell did not get to turn every door into his.
I opened it.
Two officers stood in the shampoo room.
One was a Black woman with her hair pulled into a low bun. She kept both hands visible and spoke softly, “Are you injured?”
“No.”
“Did he touch you tonight?”
“No.”
“Do you need medical attention?”
“I don’t think so.”
My chest tightened around the last word.
The officer watched me take a shallow breath. “Let the EMTs check you when they arrive.”
I nodded.
In the hallway, Trell sat against the wall in handcuffs. A second officer stood beside him. The back of his hoodie had collected dust from the floor.
He looked up when I came out.
“You did this,” he said.
The woman officer stepped between us before I could answer.
“No contact means no contact,” she told him. “Do not speak to her.”
He turned his face toward the wall.
I looked at the camera over the hallway entrance.
A small red light blinked above the lens.
Everything was recorded.