1. Eva #2
So. I drum my fingertips on the desk. It’s obviously someone new.
I guzzle the last of my cold, stale coffee and put the mug down. The sound is too loud in the quiet apartment, and I flinch. My nerves are shot, and I’m pissed at myself for it.
There’s nothing outside that’s close enough to hurt me.
Just a street that goes dead quiet after midnight, a bodega on the corner that closed hours ago, and the muffled bass from someone’s stereo two floors down.
I picked this neighborhood because nobody asks questions, and nobody looks too hard at anyone. I bite down on my lower lip.
That geographical choice was smart a few hours ago when I didn’t know I was being watched by God only knows who.
I could call Sal. And say what? He’d hear the fear in my voice no matter how hard I tried to hide it.
He’d panic and want to help, but there is absolutely nothing he can do for me in this situation.
Sal’s talents begin and end with making a decent old fashioned and finding the worst possible poker table in any room he walks into.
I love him. But this is mine to figure out.
I close the drive folder, kill every active session, and start rebuilding my security from scratch. It’ll take hours. While it runs, I go back to the gap they used to get inside my virtual walls.
I stare at the screen with my head in my hand.
It’d take ten minutes to patch it closed.
That would be the safe and smart thing to do.
My hands hover over the keyboard to do just that, my brain screaming at me to hurry, lock it all up, and seal every crack so that nobody can ever get in close again.
But I don’t. I leave it open.
Because, for as panicked as I am, here’s the thing that keeps gnawing at my gut…
they wanted me to know they were here. If they were good enough to get in, they were good enough to leave no trace at all.
Whoever got in left that timestamp on purpose.
Someone showed up, looked around, and left the door cracked open on their way out.
On purpose.
Someone went through the trouble of finding me, and dammit, I want to know why. That want is stronger than my fear, which either makes me brave, or makes me the same idiot girl who trusted Daniel. And honestly? I can’t tell the difference between the two right now.
I get up and make another cup of coffee from the ancient Mr. Coffee on the counter that came with the apartment.
I wrap my hands around the mug once it’s filled with the hot liquid.
I stare out the window—nothing of importance but the fire escape, the alley, and the building across the street with half its windows dark.
No shadows move in the darkness, at least none that I can see. But then again, someone was inside my system for forty-nine minutes. I didn’t see that either.
Everything is still, and that somehow feels eerie as hell.
A few minutes pass. I sit back down and look at the gap I left open.
I learned something in prison that stuck with me…the person who comes to find you is always less dangerous than the one you never see coming.
So come find me again. I’ll be here.
I lean back and glare at the monitor with my arms folded across my chest.
And this time, I’ll be watching.
I don’t sleep. Obviously.
By five-thirty, I’m still sitting in the dark staring at a screen full of code. My eyes are gritty, my neck is killing me, and I’ve had enough coffee to fuel a small aircraft. I need to move. I need to not be in this apartment anymore.
I grab my jacket and head for Sal’s restaurant down the street.
Rosario’s is a four-minute walk from my place, which is the main reason I picked this neighborhood.
It’s not much to look at from the outside, just a narrow storefront wedged between a dry cleaner and a nail salon with a hand-painted sign that Sal’s business partner Marco made when they opened.
But inside, it’s warm and loud and it smells like garlic and freshly baked bread and everything that feels like home when you don’t have one.
Sal’s behind the bar when I walk in, wiping down the counter even though the breakfast rush doesn’t start for another hour.
He does this every morning…gets here before anyone else, sets up alone, and talks to himself while he works.
I know because I’ve shown up at this hour more times than I’d like to admit.
“E!” He looks up with that big, warm grin. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks. Love you too.”
“I mean it. When’s the last time you slept?”
“Define sleep.”
He shakes his head and slides a cup of coffee across the bar without being asked.
It’s already got sugar in it because he knows how I take it.
He always knows. That’s Sal. He remembers every regular’s drink order, every server’s birthday, every distributor’s kid’s name.
He collects people the way I collect data… thoroughly and without trying.
“Sit,” he says. “I’m making eggs.”
“I didn’t ask for eggs.”
“You didn’t have to. You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you haven’t eaten since yesterday and you’re running on caffeine and stubbornness.” He’s already cracking eggs into a pan. “Which, by the way, is not a sustainable nutritional strategy.”
“Says the man who ate pizza rolls for dinner three nights last week.”
“That’s different. Pizza rolls are a food group.”
I smile because I can’t help it. Sal does that to me.
He’s the only person on the planet who can make me feel normal when everything else surrounding me is in flames.
He slides a plate of scrambled eggs in front of me and leans on the bar, watching me eat with that satisfied expression he gets when he’s feeding someone.
Like it’s the only thing in the world that makes total sense to him.
He built this place from nothing. A shitty lease on a space nobody wanted, a borrowed stove, and a menu he wrote on the back of a napkin.
Three years later, it’s actually something.
Not a goldmine, but something. And he did it while handling my legal bills and visiting me every two weeks in a prison four hours away and never once making me feel like any of it was my fault.
It was my fault. But Sal would choke on his own tongue before he’d say it.
“So, what’s going on?” he asks. “And don’t say nothing, because you only show up this early when something’s eating at you.”
“Nothing’s eating at me. I just wanted to see your face.”
“My face.” He lifts an eyebrow. “At five-thirty in the morning.”
“It’s a great face.”
“Eva.”
“Sal.”
He stares at me. I stare back. This is a game we’ve played since we were kids. Who blinks first. He always loses because Sal doesn’t have the patience for standoffs. He’d rather just ask the question again, louder.
“Fine,” he says, throwing up his hands. “Don’t tell me. But eat the damn eggs.”
I eat the damn eggs. They’re good, they’re hot, and someone made them for me. That’s enough.
The front door opens while I’m scraping the last of them onto my fork. Two men walk in, clearly not here for breakfast.
I narrow my eyes in their direction. Late thirties, big, bulky, kind of thuggy, dressed in the kind of clothes that scream money, but not taste. One of them has a thick neck and a gold chain. The other is shorter, with eyes that move around the room before the rest of him does.
Sal’s smile changes. It doesn’t disappear. He’s too good an actor for that. But it tightens. The warmth drains out of it and what’s left is fake. I’ve seen that smile before. I saw it every time he came to visit me in prison and pretended everything was fine.
“Gentlemen,” he says. “Kitchen’s not open yet.”
“We’re not here to eat, Sal.” The one with the chain leans on the bar. A chill slips down my spine. He’s too close, taking up too much space on purpose. “Just checking in.”
“Checking in,” Sal repeats, his voice easy. “Well, I appreciate the visit. I’ll have something for you by Friday. Same as always.”
The shorter one looks at me. His eyes move from my face to my hands to the exits and back. I hold his gaze and don’t blink.
“Friday,” the chain guy says. He taps the bar twice with his knuckle, like he’s stamping something. “Don’t be late this time.”
They leave. The door closes behind them and the stench of their overpowering cologne lingers in the air, making my stomach roil.
Sal picks up a glass and starts polishing it. His hands are steady, but his jaw is tight and there’s a muscle jumping near his temple that I know he doesn’t want me to see.
“Who was that?” I ask.
“Nobody. Business stuff.”
“Business stuff.” I keep my voice level. “Business stuff doesn’t usually show up before sunrise and tell you not to be late.”
“It’s handled, E. Don’t worry about it.”
He gives me the look, the one that says drop it. And I want to push. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to push, because those men were not here for a friendly check-in and we both know it.
But Sal’s face says don’t. And I’ve learned the hard way that pushing people who don’t want to be pushed only drives them further into the thing you’re trying to pull them out of.
So I let it go. I finish my coffee, kiss my brother on the cheek, and walk home through streets that are just starting to wake up.
I lock my apartment door behind me.
Then I sit down at my desk and stare at the timestamp.
I’ve survived prison, Daniel, and months of Dmitri’s dirty work by keeping my head down and my mouth shut. But watching my brother fake a smile for men who scare him, I realize the truth that’s been staring me in the face.
Keeping my head down isn’t keeping Sal safe.
It’s just keeping me blind.