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When my perpetually slow computer is ready, I hen-peck ‘Gregory Vallejo’into the keyboard. I didn’t know his full name before, and I wouldn’t know now if not for Miranda London’s aggressive and continuous coverage on the subject. But he’s the name she throws around every hour, on the hour.
Hitting enter, I take my hands from the keyboard and fidget with the plain silver ring I wear around my thumb. It’s tarnished in places and fits snug after I’ve bent and misused it over the last year or two.
Cars honk in the street outside, and my neighbors argue about… something. Dinner. Drugs. The kids. I don’t know. Mom dozes on her end of the line, and thebeep-beep-beepof her monitors keeps me company as news article after news article slowly fills my laptop screen. Pop-up ads slow things down, and my long out-of-date security software warns me that I may be at risk of viruses.
“Gregory Vallejo: Wanted in relation to nine connected murders over a week-long spree in New York City. December 2017.’”
“Gregory Vallejo: Believed dead. Who will run his empire now?”
“The body believed to be Gregory Vallejo’s third wife, found in the charred remains of a burnt-out luxury sedan. Seattle, Wash.”
“Jesus.” I scan article after article with sweat beading on my brow and my stomach churning with nausea. Confusion pulses in my veins as every news piece leads toward a dead gangster whose obituary pre-dates my run-in earlier this week.
Which means it’s impossible he was the man in the alleyway, right?
It’s simply not possible that he’s the man I saw. Which means whatever name the press has picked up is wrong.
I startle on the floor and twist toward the door when a loud bang pops outside my apartment. Tears burn in my eyes, and anxiety makes my stomach ache. Because that pop could be a gun shot. Or a backfiring car. Or a mini firework. They’re all sounds one becomes accustomed to hearing when you live on this street. But even before witnessing a man’s murder, they were sounds that made my heart race and my fingers ache as I clench them tight and prepare to hide.
Or run.
Or curl into a ball and cry my eyes out.
Because I’m a coward. I’m a sheep. I’m the type of woman who watched a man lose his life, but I didn’t report it. I didn’t tell anyone. And I didn’t help bring justice for someone who probably didn’t deserve to die.
“Rory? Honey?”
I drag my eyes from my locked, barricaded, and unopened front door and instead pick up my phone. Unmuting it, I bring it closer and force my lips into a smile. Though god knows why. It’s not like she can see me. “I’m still here, Mom. You okay?”
“Yeah.” She exhales a gentle sigh and edges back toward sleep. “Miss you.”
I reach up and swipe a falling tear from my cheek. “I miss you, too.” Those damn cats screech again, drawing me around and onto my aching hip with a hiss. I look toward the living room window, though it’s closed, and covered with heavy black-out curtains. “Listen, Mom.” Swallowing a ball of nerves, I set my phone on the floor, but only so I can use my hands to push up to stand and rest on my good leg. Which is still my bruised leg. I’m stiff and sore and running out of appendages to run on. So I set my hand on the counter as I turn and bend to collect my phone from the floor. “I’m going to hang up, okay?” A falling trash can brings my head up again with a snap, my nerves balancing on a razor-sharp edge I’m not sure I can maintain for much longer. “I have to eat dinner and do the dishes.”
“Rory—”
“Most importantly,” I cut in, “you need to rest. I want you to sleep well, okay?” I hold my phone in one hand and reach out for my crutch with the other. Footsteps on the stoop outside make my stomach drop, but it’s not until a loudthud-thud-thudknock on my door that my heart stops completely.
I swear, I miss a dozen beats as my eyes shoot to every corner of my home.
“Ms. Swanson?” A man’s heavy voice comes from the other side of the door. Then, another knock. “My name is Detective Archer Malone. I’m from the Copeland City Police Department.”
“Rory?”
“Sleep well, Mom.” I kill the call and shove my phone into the back pocket of my oversized jeans. Then I swallow again and press my newly freed hand to my stomach. “Um…” I clear the croak from my voice. “Hello?”
“Hello.” Archer Malone’s tone softens. Friendlier. Kinder. “Ms. Swanson. We’d really like a moment to talk with you. Could you open the door for us, please?”
“Wh-what do you want?” I pull a crutch under my arm and reach out for the second to support my other side. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Do you really want me to shout about it?” he counters. “In the street, so all your neighbors can hear?”
“I don’t…” I glance toward my back door and whimper when a shadow falls across the stoop outside. Then I look to the front door again and take a single step forward. Then another. “Am I in trouble?”
“No ma’am.” He knocks again, though it’s softer this time. Gentler. “You’re definitely not in trouble. My partner and I would just like to speak with you. Can you open the door, sweetheart? We know you’ve had a big couple of days. We know you’re scared.”
Shaking my head, I turn back to my kitchen counter and switch a crutch for a long-bladed knife whose mere presence makes my teeth ache. I can’t explain it. I can’t describe exactly why. But looking at the glistening steel makes the enamel covering my teeth quiver and hurt. “I’m calling 911,” I shout back, clutching the knife in my shaking hand. “I’m asking them to send someone else.”
“My badge number is 549248,” he calls back easily. “My partner’s name is Charlie Fletcher. Badge number 249816.” His tone grows more hurried now. Less cajoling. “Please open the door, ma’am. We’d like to speak with you about something important. Your life depends on it, and time is of the essence.”
