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"Means I changed the locks. She left one day, and when she came home, she was locked out."
My fingers tap my leg, a pattern of two taps per finger, then three the next. Then two. "Then what happened?"
He rolls his eyes. ”She left, man. What the fuck you think happened?"
I wouldn’t mind getting his blood on my clothes. I’m good at getting out blood stains. “She left? Just like that? What about her things?"
His eyes shift down the hall, then he crosses his arms over his chest. "I let her in to get a bag."
"A bag." I hear the savagery in my tone and realize I'm losing control. Scratch that. I've lost control. One of my foster mothers had a big garden. It filled up the entire tiny backyard. She used to can her vegetables. She'd put a big pot on the stove, and the top would rattle and steam. A pressure cooker, she called it.
I have a pressure cooker in my chest.
His eyes widen, and he takes a step back. "That's the rules. You don't like it, take it up with the owners. I just enforce it."
I take a step forward, moving right into the doorway, forcing him back. This fucker kicked a woman out into the street with one bag. "Where is all her stuff?"
He swallows and squares his shoulders, trying to look tough. “I don't know. The boss sends people out to clean out the deadbeat's places. I don't know what they do with it after that."
My brother practiced smiles in the mirror when we were kids. I did too, but never when anyone could watch me. I would try to get my face to match some of the expressions my brothers made. Cataloging them, analyzing them, putting them away for a time when I'd need them.
The smile I put on now is one I've used in the past. One I learned from Colton and Micah. And it does exactly what I intend it to do. The man wheezes out a breath, his tanned face turning whiter. My words are low and measured when I finally speak.
"You are going to find out. Now."
The emotions pinging through my body seem to grow bigger and bigger as I walk back to the van. I close the door and put Janey's coat carefully on the passenger seat, and then slam my hands on the wheel. "Fuck," I scream, the pressure cooker exploding. I press my palms together and start spinning, trying to force the lid back on, but it doesn't work. Of course it doesn't work. I need more.
I've always rocked. Something about the back-and-forth motion helps me process life and cope with feelings. I have a lot of feelings. Sometimes I think that everything I feel is bigger than other people’s.
Tonight the rocking does what it always does for me, it helps those big emotions stop pinging through my body and start to slow. And slow some more. Until only one large, overriding feeling is resting right in the center of my chest.
Fear.
I haven't felt it in decades. Not like this anyway. Where is she? Where did she go? Is she safe? I run the last month through my mind. Every moment with her, every interaction taking on a new meaning.
Her clothing is still neat and tidy, but always the same couple of items on rotation. I noticed, but I just assumed she bought multiples. I do. If I find something I like, I buy twenty. I hate finding something I love, wearing it out, then discovering it's been discontinued.
I slap my hand against the wheel again. The fucking granola bars. She had a bag full of food. I didn't think anything of it. But now? Is the food in that little white grocery bag all she has to eat?
Unacceptable.
Starting the van, I peel away from the curb, driving quickly back home. I need help. I have to find her. I don't bother pulling into the garage, instead stopping right at the front of the building, parking, and locking the doors. The doorman hurries to open the front door, giving me a nod. This is my kingdom. I could park in the lobby, and no one would say a word.
The ride to the penthouse feels impossibly long. I let myself bounce on my toes, trying to keep my mind clear.
It's not working. The worry overrides everything else.
I storm off the elevator straight into tree-trimming chaos. I picture a big pair of scissors chopping off the top of a tree, and I mentally remind myself to stop calling it that. Decorating makes more sense and doesn't hurt my brain.
My brothers, their women, everyone turns to me when I stop in the middle of the room.
Zach, with Maya on his lap, watches me carefully. "Brother, what's going on?"
I press my lips together, stemming the jumble of words that want to pour out. Everyone's eyes are on me. I feel them boring into me like lasers.
"She's not safe."
"Who's not safe," he asks, voice calm and level. His calm, steady gaze helps me settle a little bit more.
