22 Kimmy
The new deadbolt clicked into place.
Jazz wiped his hands on a kitchen towel and grinned at Katrina, who performed a fist pump and then a victory shimmy.
They were both sweating. I wasn't—my body had long since decided to mostly phase out things like sweat and replace them with a steady supply of anxiety and—as of late—adrenaline rush.
"You are now safer than the president," Jazz announced, flicking a chunk of packaging foam at me. I caught it with both hands, dropped it in the trash, then looked at Katrina for a verdict. She gave the lock a test twist, then aimed both thumbs at me.
"You did good," she said. "If anyone tries to break in now, they'll have to chainsaw the entire door."
"I really appreciate it, guys," I said.
Jazz scanned the apartment, hands on his hips. "You want us to stick around?"
"Nah," I cut him off but softened it with a smile. "I have some work to catch up on. But, thank you. Maybe next time."
He gave Katrina a look that said "See? I tried" and then started packing up the toolkit. Katrina pulled me aside, out of Jazz's earshot.
"You really okay?" she whispered a question.
"Yeah. I promise."
She nodded, but I knew she didn't buy it. She squeezed my shoulder, then, impulsively, hugged me so hard my ribs nearly cracked. "I'll check in later," she added.
"Tell Mom I said hi."
"Will do."
They left together, Katrina shooting one last glance at me over her shoulder. As I walked them into the hallway. The elevator doors closed behind them with a clang.
I stood near the doorway of my apartment for a few seconds, then went back in and locked the deadbolt.
The place was silent except for the faint sizzle of traffic in the street. Still, my home felt different now—safer, yes, but also more like a bunker. Like I'd just sandbagged myself inside.
I walked a circuit, checked every window, every latch, every blind, even behind the curtains and behind my plant.
I didn't know what I was searching for until I stopped in front of my desk. I pulled the drawer open and there it was—the burner—where I'd stashed it right before Katrina and Jazz had arrived to avoid any questions.
I grabbed the phone and hesitated for a full minute before punching the Customer Service number.
The line barely rang once. "Operative Seven. Are you in danger?"
His voice was ice-cold, but it was a weirdly comforting temperature. Like someone dropping a snowball down your shirt—jarring, but it woke you up.
I could have lied and said yes, but the truth slipped out before I could catch it. "No. Not really."
He didn't say anything. The silence wasn't quite patient. It was more like a space carved out for efficiency.
I didn't expect him to hang up on me, not really, not anymore. He in fact remained there.
"I just—" I started, then coughed to clear the thickness in my throat. "I got the locks installed. Like you said."
There was another moment of nothing. I pictured him sitting somewhere, phone glued to his ear, eyes probably scanning surroundings for threats, or maybe watching a wall of security monitors.
"Good," he finally said. Same tone as before.
I wanted to laugh for some reason. "That's all?"
"Affirmative. Is there anything else?"
"Am I safe now?" I asked. I meant it as a rhetorical question, but it hung in the air like a challenge.
He didn't answer for a while, and I thought maybe he was reviewing a checklist in his mind, scoring my situation, weighing variables I would never know. Or maybe reading a script he'd long forgotten because no other clients except me called him.
"You're safe as long as I'm nearby."
"Are you…nearby now?" I heard the wobble in my voice and hated myself for it.
Another silence. Longer this time. My heart was so loud I was certain it would travel up the line.
"Yes," he replied.
I closed my eyes, felt every muscle in my body tighten, but not because I was scared. "Will I see you if I look out the window?"
"If you do, then I'm shit at my job."
I walked over to the switch, then I flicked off the overheads and let the apartment go semi-dark. The only illumination was the table lamp, the white smear of moon in the sky, and the occasional blink of headlights coming from the outside through the partially closed curtains.
I inched to the window, phone still clutched in my hand.
The building across the street had five floors and maybe half the units had their lights on.
None of them looked like those exaggerated scenes in the movies, with naked people or wild parties or couples fighting.
They were mostly elderly and parents with kids, moving shadows against a backdrop of TVs and laptops and kitchens.
I scanned the street below—first left, then right, then up.
Nothing.
My heart didn't slow down. If anything, the silence just gave it more room to echo inside me.
I pressed closer to the glass, searching.
"You're not going to find me," he suddenly said on the line.
I felt strange. He saw me while I didn't see him. I didn't know his face or his name or his age. "It's not exactly fair," I blurted out.
"Life never is," he spoke in a low, almost inaudible voice, and I thought that, for the first time, I heard a flicker of emotion from him. Like something between the words cracked a little.