Sonnet Ellison
I barely slept the following two days after I witnessed the murder. Every time I closed my eyes, that gun fired again, and I woke up trying to run before remembering I was in bed.
Living in a condominium offered a decent amount of security. A murderer would have to enter through the main doors, get past the receptionist, make it through another locked entrance, ride the elevator to my floor, and then get through my alarm system and dead bolt.
Logically, I knew that. But logic hadn’t stopped me from checking my locks six times.
Every sound from the hallway sent me to the peephole.
A neighbor’s dog barked around two in the morning, making me nearly piss myself.
The elevator opened at three fifteen, making me hold my breath until I felt like I would pass out.
At four, somebody dropped something heavy in the unit above mine, making my heart stop.
When I couldn’t sleep or the walls started making me restless, I went to the range to practice my shot.
I knew that I was vulnerable being a woman living alone.
So, years ago, I got my permit, bought a gun, and made sure I knew how to use it.
I had never needed to pull it on anybody before, but after what I saw in that loading area, it felt like that day was coming sooner than I wanted.
After another night of minimal sleep, I stood in front of my closet in my bra and panties while staring at my clothes. Going to work felt reckless, but staying home felt suspicious.
My phone rang from the bed. Looking over, I saw Dior’s name flashed across the screen.
I grabbed it immediately. “Hello?”
“Bitch.” That single word came through the phone full of scandal, satisfaction, and exhaustion.
I closed my eyes, sighing, “Dior, I need to tell you something.”
“So do I, and mine cannot wait.”
“It really can.”
“No, ma’am. You don’t understand. I met this man on Grindr last night, and when I tell you that profile picture was false advertising in the best possible way…”
I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. Dior had called me at six forty-two in the morning to give me a sexual Yelp review.
“I have to tell you something important,” I tried again.
“Hold on. I am not done setting the scene.” I groaned, but he ignored me as he went on.
“He said he was 6’2”, but you know men lie about height like we can’t see.
So, I was expecting 5’11” maybe. Baby, he was 6’2”, with broad shoulders and a perfectly lined beard, and he smelled so fucking expensive. ”
I stepped into a navy-blue skirt and tugged it over my hips. Then I murmured, “Congratulations.”
“Don’t give me that dry congratulations. I haven’t even told you how big his dick was.”
“I don’t need to know about that.”
“You absolutely do, because it was large and employed.”
I paused while buttoning my blouse. “Employed?”
“Yes. It’s so hard to meet a nigga with a real job on Grindr.”
Despite everything, a laugh escaped me. That was Dior’s gift. He could drag humor out of me when I had no business finding anything funny.
Then I looked toward the television mounted across from my bed. The morning news played quietly, part of the routine I followed every weekday. Weather while I showered. Headlines while I dressed. Traffic before I left.
A photograph filled the screen, and I stopped moving, because it was Donovan. The image showed him in a black suit, stepping out of a luxury vehicle with two men behind him.
I snatched the remote from the nightstand and raised the volume.
“...identified the victim as thirty-eight-year-old Donovan Granger,” the reporter said. “Granger was found late last night in Lake Michigan.”
Dior was still talking. “And then he told me he was flexible, which I assumed meant emotionally. It did not.”
“Dior, shut up,” I hurriedly spit.
I moved closer to the television. The image changed to crime scene footage. Police tape surrounded the beach.
My knees weakened as I could hear Dior fuss, “Who you tellin’ to shut up? You mighty snappy this morning…”
Dior’s words faded as I listened to the news reporter.
“Granger was the son of prominent businessman Roman Granger, whose name has surfaced repeatedly in federal and local investigations into organized criminal activity. Neither Roman nor Donovan Granger had been convicted in connection with those allegations.”
The screen showed Roman next. He wore a dark suit and was surrounded by attorneys as he entered a courthouse. The caption beneath his image called him a Chicago businessman with suspected ties to organized crime.
The reporter continued. “Investigators are asking anyone who may have witnessed suspicious activity in the area to contact Chicago police.”
The room became too small. I tried to inhale, but I suddenly couldn’t breathe. My fingers went numb around the phone.
Roman Granger wasn’t simply an angry father who had lost control. He was a man law enforcement had investigated and failed to convict. That meant he had money and connections. That also meant that he most likely had people willing to make other people disappear.
I backed away from the television and knocked into my dresser.
“Sonnet?”
I couldn’t answer Dior.
“Sonnet, what’s wrong?”
My breathing came too fast now. It was short, useless gasps that made me light-headed without giving me enough oxygen. I pressed a hand against the dresser and forced myself to think.
Name five things you can see.
Television. Lamp. Closet. Shoes. Mirror.
Four things you can touch.
Dresser. Phone. Skirt. Carpet.
I had learned grounding exercises through countless therapy sessions years ago.
“Sonnet,” Dior urged again. “What were you trying to tell me?”
I stared at Roman’s face on the screen.
Had he seen mine? Could he find out which employees had been in the building? My name, address, and emergency contact information were all in my company’s system. A man with enough reach would not need long to locate me.
“Nothing,” I said.
“You said it was important.”
I swallowed and straightened my blouse with one hand.
The truth was sitting right there in my throat.
I wanted to tell him. Dior was the closest thing I had to family.
He was the person I called when I was sick, stranded, angry, or lonely enough to admit it.
Keeping something this big from him felt wrong.
Telling him would make him part of it, though.
If Roman discovered I had spoken, Dior could become another person who knew too much.
“I’m fine,” I lied. “I barely slept. That’s all.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He hesitated. “Do you want me to come over?”
“No. I have to finish getting ready for work.”
“Sonnet.”
“I’ll call you later.”
I ended the call before he could argue.
On the television, the reporter repeated the number for the police tip line.
I turned off the screen.
Calling the police would have been the responsible choice. It also required believing they could protect me from a man they had investigated for years without ever managing to convict.
I picked up my glasses and slid them onto my face.
Donovan’s final words returned to me. “Everything comes to light eventually.”
Maybe it would. It just would not come to light through me.