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Small wallet sized photos of whom I can only assume are a young Z lie on top—elementary school day treasures that tell the story of a boy with messy hair and an infectious smile. Flipping them over, I find several marked with grade three, five and nine.
When I open a larger manila envelope, I find a stack of candid shots. The top photo is of three older men, all laughing as if one of them had just told a funny joke. It was taken long ago as the colors have faded, but I recognize the lobby of The Whitney in the background. Curious to know who they might be, I look on the back to find an interesting answer. A messy script identifies them as Hans Cohen, Alexander Belov, and Mr. X. I recognize two of the men are Katja and Dex’s fathers by their last names and assume the third man was unknown to the writer.
Digging deeper, I find another photo of three subjects, this time all children, posing in front of the two-story high Christmas tree in The Whitney’s grand lobby. I recognize Katja immediately. She looks to be around eight or nine, and even then, she looked beautiful and poised in her fancy dress. It takes me a minute longer to realize the teenager right behind her is Dex. He’s in jeans and a t-shirt instead of the designer suits he wears now, but his smile is the same.
It’s the toddler sitting on Katja’s lap that takes me the longest to figure out. Warning bells start to go off in my head just as the truth clicks into place.
All this time, I’ve assumed that when Dex had moved into The Whitney, it was because the two of them had just met and fallen in love. But seeing Dex, Katja, and Z together in the lobby of the Whitney as children rocks my already shaky mind to the core.
Only the renewed pounding on the door down the hallway can pull me from my dark thoughts. My pulse races as I hear JV’s friend shouting at him again to open his door. My brain knows that none of this is my fault. JV attacked me first. He went out of his way to terrorize me. All I did was defend myself yet knowing that I’m responsible for taking his life—it’s surreal.
When new voices join the shouting in the hall, I finally have to throw my hands over my ears, desperate to drown out the loud commotion as others now join in the search for a dead man. The loud ramming against a door terrifies me. Have they found out where I am? Are they going to break down Z’s door next?
Without really thinking, I rush back to the table next to the bed, picking up the handgun Z had left with me for protection. I’ve never shot a gun in my life, and twenty-four hours ago, I would have called anyone who said I would be even holding a gun today a liar.
I collapse on the side of the bed, eyes peeled on the door. The weapon lies heavy in my lap. My fingers tremble against the metal as I hear more shouting—another loud bang of a door.
Silence.
My eyes are still trained on the door when I hear the click of the lock. They found me. I’m going to die.
I lift the heavy gun, trying to hold it steady as I point it just as the door cracks open a few inches. Is it Z returning? If so, why isn’t he calling out to me to put my mind at ease?
Unexpected tears of relief flood my eyes when Katja steps into the room, followed closely by Dex. I let the heavy gun fall back into my lap as I burst into sobs I didn’t even know I’ve been holding in.
It’s Dex who reaches me first, kneeling in front of where I’m sitting on the side of the unmade bed. He gently removes the gun from between my shaking fingers.
“I’m sure the shouting in the hall had to scare you,” he says softly before asking, “You didn’t open the door, did you?”
The lump in my throat prevents words, but I shake my head vehemently. I finally get out, “Door was locked.”
“Okay, good. Very good.”
I want to argue that none of this is very good, but I’m too emotional to form words.
I’m grateful when he stands, making room for Katja to rush to my side, sitting next to me and pulling me into a tight hug.
We’ve only known each other for less than a year, but with our age difference, I’ve kinda come to think of her as an older sister. That I finally feel truly safe since the attack is the only explanation I have for collapsing into a blubbering mess. I’m unprepared for the level of relief I feel as she holds me and tells me everything is going to be okay. I so want to believe her.
