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Iwas shaking and in tears by the time Beckham got to me. He held me and managed to bring me down from the cliff of panic I had climbed. The cops were already inside my apartment, turning it inside out. I wondered if I should have let Beckham take a look first, but honestly, I wasn’t thinking at all when I walked into my apartment and saw what was written on the wall.
“Are you okay?” Beckham asked me first thing when he got to me.
I nodded, barely able to answer a squeaky “yes.” Next to me, Mason and Jar both meowed from their cat carriers, no doubt recognizing Beckham and taking as much comfort in him as I was.
“What happened?” The red-and-blue lights of the parked police cars bounced off Beckham’s face.
I took a deep breath, unsure if I was able to even recount what I’d seen.
“I was coming home and I unlock the door, open it.” I swallow, my mouth incredibly dry. “I open it and right there, on the wall, there’s the words ‘You’ll regret this’ and it’s written in blood. I thought it was paint at first, but no. It was blood.”
Beckham’s face turned to my apartment. I heard him hiss a curse word.
“Juan had said those exact words,” Beckham noted.
“I know. I keep replaying them. I heard him say it from my room.”
“Was there anything else? Was anything taken?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. They went in there to leave that message and the rest of…” My voice cracked. Beckham pulled me in tighter. His hand went up and down my back, and it was absolutely the most comforting thing in the world at that moment.
“The rest of the poor pig’s body,” I was able to finish. “I’m so… this is crazy, Beck. So, so crazy. I thought I was going to be getting closure from this. But it’s the opposite. I feel like I’m constantly back in that fucking alleyway. And it’s getting worse. If it was Juan, how the hell did—”
My breathing turned ragged. I tried sucking in a breath but didn’t feel like it was enough. I sucked in another. Not enough.
Another.
No, still not enough.
More.
No. It wasn’t working. I couldn’t breathe.
One more time. Deep breath. So simple.
Why wouldn’t it work? Why couldn’t I breathe?
I could barely fill my lungs. It felt like scraping at the air.
“I can’t, I can’t.” I was holding on to Beckham. The world was spinning. This had become so fucking real, so fucking fast.
“Olly, Olly, listen to me. Listen.” Beckham held on to my hands. I still couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t breathe.
“I can’t breathe. Beck.”
“You can. Yes you can. Listen to me. Follow me. Take one deep breath in through your nose. That’s it. There you go. Now let it out. Perfect. Let’s do it again. Just keep looking into my eyes, Olly. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere. Just like that.”
It was working. My lungs were working again. The panic was being pushed away. Not far, but far enough to allow oxygen back into my body. I didn’t break my gaze from Beckham’s, letting his eyes serve as a lighthouse.
Another deep breath, my lungs filling up with fresh air. “Thank you,” I said, my voice low.
“Nothing to thank me for.”
In the same way I was able to find my breath, I found the questions I had been meaning to ask, the words rattling around in my brain, adding to the chaos. “How did they… How did they get in? Juan? Nothing’s broken. Nothing. And none of the neighbors noticed anything either, so there was no break-in. And I vividly remember unlocking my door when I got home. Jesus.” The anxiety attack had sapped me of any strength I had left. I broke down like a car sputtering to the side of the road. Thankfully, Beckham was there to wrap his strong arms around me. I buried my face in his chest and let it out. The years of fear, the years of trauma.
Everything felt so fresh. Like it had happened yesterday. Not the six years that separated me from Derrick’s murder. It felt like I was holding him only a few hours ago, watching him take his last breath.
