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Jason Miller
It’s still early in the evening, and I feel like I should spend some time with Layla. It’s critical I form a relationship with her and start the slow process of building trust. She’s been holed up in her room all evening, ever since dinner, and I’m trying to think of something that will lure her out. I wonder if she likes to play board games. I found a stack of them in my bedroom closet—Scrabble, Monopoly, and Yahtzee. Do girls her age still play games, or are they all about social media now? Maybe she’d like to watch something on Netflix with me. TV’s still cool, right?
I knock loudly on her bedroom door. I’m not about to repeat the mistake I made earlier when I jumped the gun and rushed into her room uninvited. When she doesn’t answer, I pull out my phone and text her.
Jason: Hey, Layla. You busy?
I wait a good two minutes, which feels like forever, but she still doesn’t answer.
I’m having a serious case ofdéjà vu. Only this time I’m not going to barge into her bedroom like I did last time and get an eyeful of her half-naked body. I’m trying really hard to forget what I saw that last time, because it’s damn inappropriate for me to be thinking about her that way.
I knock again, louder this time, and when that doesn’t work, I try texting her again.
Still no response.
I’m sure she’s in there. I would have heard her leave her room.
I press my ear to the door and listen, wondering if she’s in the shower. But I don’t hear water running. Instead, I detect a faint, muffled sound. Something akin to a gasp. It’s the kind of sound that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Fuck.
I turn the knob and push the door open enough that I can poke my head in. “Layla?” But I don’t see her.
As I step inside, I quickly scan her room from left to right. Then I check her bathroom. The door’s open, and the room is empty.
She’s not here.
But that’s impossible. I would have heard her leave, unless she intentionally snuck out.
Where the fuck could she be?
There’s only one place I haven’t checked.
When I open her closet door, my heart nearly stops at the sight of Layla’s huddled form on the bare wood floor. Her knees are drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around them. Her head is down, and she’s rocking forward and back. Light glints off the blade of the knife in her hand.
Holy shit.
“Layla.” Afraid of startling her, I crouch down behind her, poised to snatch the knife out of her hand. She has her earbuds in, and I can hear pop music blasting into her ears. Gently, I lay one hand on her shoulder, while my other hand slides down her arm to her wrist. I sweep the knife from her grip and after checking the blade for any sign of blood—there isn’t any, thank god—I toss it far out of reach.
Startled, she pulls away so forcefully that she topples over, falling to the floor.
“Layla?”
Because of the music, she can’t hear a word I say, so I raise my hands in a placating gesture. “Shh, it’s okay.” Slowly, so as not to startle her further, I pull the earbuds from her ears, reach for her phone, and turn off the music.
She stares up at me with wild eyes. At this moment, I’m not even sure she realizes who I am.
“Layla, it’s me, Jason.”
A range of emotions flashes across her face, from shock to surprise to mortification.
I scan her arms looking for blood and don’t see any, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t hurt somewhere. I’ve hardly been on the job for long, and already my client is attempting to cut herself.
How did I fuck this up so badly?
“Are you hurt?” I ask gently.
She looks away, her face flushed with embarrassment. “No.”
