Page 114 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

“Or do you only know me as ‘Cassian’s wife,’ and was that enough for you?”

She opened her mouth to retort, but I didn’t give her the chance.

“Do you know why I let you be, Cassandra?” My voice dropped dangerously low. “Because you’re insignificant. You’re a footnote. If you aren’t standing directly in my path, I forget you exist.”

Her face flushed with fresh anger. I took one deliberate step forward.

She instinctively took one back.

“You’re a mosquito,” I said, almost clinically. “A persistent, irritating buzz. And do you know what I do when a mosquito starts annoying me?”

A small, cold smile touched my lips.

“I don’t open a window and hope it goes away. I find the source.”

I held her gaze.

“And I end the nuisance. Permanently.”

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, every trace of smugness gone.

“If you show your face in front of me again,” I said, my voice calm and final, “I’ll be forced to get the bug spray and handle you myself.”

I gave her shoulder a light, almost friendly pat.

“So do us both a favor and stay away, okay?”

I turned before Cassandra could answer and headed for the car.

“Naija?” I called as she reached for the driver’s-side door.

“Yeah?” she replied, one hand resting on the door.

“I don’t keep you around for your fighting skills.”

Her brow furrowed.

“I keep you around for your looks.” I slid into the passenger seat and closed the door.

How hard could making a cocktail be?

That was famously my last thought before the chaos began.

Apparently, making a decent cocktail was an exact science of humiliation. I was failing spectacularly. My kitchen counter looked like the scene of a fruity, alcoholic crime. I’d tasted so many failed concoctions that my respect for bartenders had skyrocketed into reverence.

I was hunched over my final, desperate attempt when a sudden sound halted my concentration.

My head snapped up. All thoughts of citrus and syrup vanished. My eyes narrowed as I scanned the shadow beneath the door. In one fluid motion, I slipped my hand into the concealed slot beside the fridge and closed my fingers around the cool, familiar grip of my aluminum bat.

I moved toward the foyer, my socks silent against the floor.

Another sound.

Clearer this time.

The unmistakable, grating scritch of a key being forced into a lock that no longer matched it. Then came a jiggle, followed by a frustrated rattle.

It was past midnight, and someone was trying to break into my apartment.