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It’s my own paranoia. It has to be.
My heart pounds in my chest, and I tremble as I pull the stairs down.
The faster I get in, the faster I can get out.
I climb up the corroded stairs, gripping the railing with my hands. The cold bites into my skin. I can feel the rust and the grime on it, but I don’t care. I need to get inside. One step at a time until I reach the landing for the first floor, my floor.
The window is locked, but this isn’t my first time breaking inside my apartment, and I know the lock is broken.
It’s only one of the reasons I hate this place so much.
Normally, at night, I wedge a chair against the window. Without the chair there, the lock doesn’t stay in place.
With a deep inhale, I peek inside the window, and just as I suspected, the chair is clear across the room.
My hand reaches out and tries to push the window open, but I know it won’t open right away. You have to wiggle the flimsy glass. I shake it back and forth until the lock moves with the vibrations.
Just as I knew it would, the crappy lock that was merely resting in place and never doing its job unlatches.
I push the window open and slide my body through the crack.
A large audible sigh leaves my body once I’m inside, but it’s short-lived as I look around the place.
My apartment was never nice, but now it looks like a bomb exploded.
All of my things are thrown around. Cabinets are open. Someone was here, and that someone was searching.
It would be nice if I were able to pretend to be ignorant for a minute because what could anyone hope to find in my apartment? But I know the answer. Gideon’s words ricochet in my head.
The money Roman stole.
The only problem is I don’t have the money.
I never did.
There isn’t much to salvage. Grabbing a pair of pants, I quickly pull off my shorts and slide them on. Then I stand on the bed, pushing the popcorn-stained ceiling tile over.
Please let it be there.
My hand rummages around, and then I find it. The small bag filled with all the cash I have in the world.
When I go to count it, I hear a noise.
My front door kicks open, and three large men stride in through the opening as if they own the place.
“Isn’t this interesting.” It’s the man from the picture, and his eyes are locked on the bag in my hand. “Where is my money?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I fire back. He’s still looking at the bag. I’m scared. Every bone in my body feels like it’s shaking, but I try my hardest to keep my voice steady. “This is all I have. It’s not even fifteen hundred dollars. Please, just leave me alone. I don’t know anything about your money.”
Despite my false bravado, it feels like a cold hand wraps around my heart and squeezes. It makes it hard to breathe.
“You’re lying.” The man steps closer, and I feel like a rabbit in headlights, frozen in place. My mind races with what I should do, but I can’t think straight.
“I’m not,” I whimper, trying to shrink away. “Just please leave me alone. I don’t have your money.”
He continues to advance on me. Closer and closer until I can smell his putrid breath. Before I know what’s happening, his hand reaches out and grips my chin, his nails digging into my flesh.
I can’t help but wince, tears running down my face.
