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Paranoid.
Obsessive-compulsive.
Superstitious.
Whatever term best fits for the way I have to make sure I’m never followed, I have a routine burned into my brain so fully that I barely have to think about what I’m doing anymore.
I lay trails no sane person will be able to follow, changing my appearance just enough through different expressions and posture and clothing so as not to arouse suspicion by anyone who passes me on the street.
These are all part of the gig as I make my way back to my apartment.
My sanctuary.
Home, and the only one I’ve ever known because I had to fight to make it for myself. No one else is going to do it for me.
My muscles twinge in protest and my feet ache. Another long-ass day and even the joy of death can’t erase the toll it takes on me physically.
The apartment complex swims into view against the cloudy sky when I turn the next corner. There’s no doorman here and no one to watch with prying eyes and report my movements back to the big man in charge. I drag my ass upstairs.
There are multiple locks on the door and I throw them all open before compulsion has me locking them behind me, one right after the other, and then the top-notch security system primed and ready to alert me to any intruders.
Then, like clockwork, I check the apartment. There are no hiding spaces here. Even the closets don’t have doors.
One room, then the next, my footsteps wooden.
No personal touches either. Nothing I can’t leave behind if I have to pick up and go.
That’s the way it’s always been, the way my mama taught me.
Not even a plant in the window.
What kind of place does Layla have? I bet she’s got a secret soft streak inside. Probably has a couple of stuffed animals on her bed that she doesn’t let people see.
I slap myself on the side of the head.
Stupid thoughts. A product of exhaustion.
In the bathroom I shrug out of my jacket and let the multiple knives and guns drop to the floor.
I should shower.
I should do a lot of things that would make me a smarter man than I’m acting.
With the clock pushing three in the morning, I peel off my clothes and drop them in a basket to burn later. I rush through the shower without pausing to rest and let the water wash the grime away.
There’s no excuse for the sins stamped on my soul.
And there will be so many more before I’m out of this game, whether by my choice or someone else pulling the trigger.
I usually take a beat to rest in between marks. At least to enjoy the damn shower and to sit on the tiled bench and let the endlessly hot water soothe away the aches and pains.
Right now, I’m too curious to rest.
Curious about the detective. And her dead father.
Who is she?
Who was he?
