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Unlikely Meeting
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2026-02-03 02:27:56She has to. Why else would she mention Foxe's name like that? Why else would she look at me like she wants to see me buried six feet under?
My phone buzzes.
Melly: hello??? anella you can't just drop a bomb like that and then GHOST ME
Me: Kerry just threatened me
Melly: WHAT
Me: subtly. but yeah. she definitely knows something's up
Melly: babe you need to GET OUT of this situation
Me: i need the money
Melly: you also need to NOT DIE
I almost laugh. Almost.
Me: i'll be fine. probably.
Melly: that's not reassuring
Me: gotta go. shift starting?
Melly: yeah. night shift at the hospital. pray for me
Melly: also please don't do anything stupid
Me: no promises
I shove my phone in my bag, grab my coat, and decide I am done with this day.
®®®
The thing about New Greenland in February is that it gets dark stupid early. By the time I make it out of the office, the sun is already setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that would be pretty if I wasn't so exhausted I can barely see straight.
My scooter is parked in the alley behind the building—a beat-up little Vespa knockoff I bought off some guy on Craigslist three years ago. It makes a horrifying rattling noise every time I hit twenty miles per hour, but it’s proudly mine, and it gets me where I need to go.
I swing my leg over, pull on my helmet, and am about to start the engine when my phone buzzes again.
Melly: btw how's Jericho doing?
My chest tightens.
Jericho.
My little brother who isn't so little anymore; twenty-three years old and stuck in a hospital bed five miles away because I can't afford to bring him closer. The accident happened two years ago, some drunk driver who ran a red light and T-boned Jericho's car so hard it flipped three times. He survived. Barely. But his spine didn't.
The experimental surgery he needs costs more than I make in three years.
Which is why I am doing this. All of this.
Spying on my boss's fiancée, letting some stranger blackmail me, pretending I don't want to scream every time June looks at me like I am supposed to have all the answers.
Because Jericho needs me.
And I am not going to let him down.
Me: he's okay. physical therapy's going well
Melly: you talk to him today?
Me: i'll call him when i get home
Melly: good. he misses you
Me: i miss him too
I shove my phone back in my pocket, start the scooter, and pull out into the street.
The city is busy—it always is—taxis honking, people shouting, the smell of street meat and exhaust fumes mixing into something that should be gross but mostly just smells like home. I get through traffic, cut down a side street to avoid the worst of the congestion, and am halfway to my apartment when I see it.
A car.
Parked in the middle of the narrow alley.
Headlights on.
Engine running.
Move, idiot. You're blocking the road.
I slow down, annoyed, about to go around when I hear it.
A sound.
A low, muffled sound.
Oh no.
Oh no no no—
I should keep driving. Should mind my business and remember that nothing good ever comes from sticking your nose where it doesn't belong.
But I don't.
I stop the scooter. Pull off my helmet.
And that's when I hear it clearly.
A moan.
Female. Breathy. The kind that doesn't leave much room for interpretation.
Are you KIDDING me right now?
I am about to leave, because honestly, who cares if some couple wants to hook up in their car in a back alley, when I hear the name.
"Foxy…"
My blood goes cold.
No.
The windows are tinted, but through the windshield I can just make out two shapes. A woman on top. A man underneath. And then the woman shifts so her blonde ponytail catches the light.
Kerry.
I should leave.
I should start my scooter and drive away and pretend I never see anything.
But my hands are frozen on the handlebars, and my brain is stuck on repeat: She's doing it again. Right now. Hours after threatening me in June's office.
And then the man in the car speaks.
His voice is low, rough, and I would recognize it anywhere.
"You're going to get us caught."
Foxe.
I turn the scooter around so fast I almost tip over, my hands shaking, my heart trying to tear its way out of my chest.
The engine sputters. Once. Twice.
No. No no no—start. Please start.
I twist the ignition again, harder this time, and the Vespa roars to life with that horrible rattling sound that suddenly seems like the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.
I don't look back.
Don't check to see if he is following.
Don't wait to see if Kerry got out of the car.
I just drive.
Fast.
My helmet is still hanging off the handlebar, forgotten, and the cold February wind bites into my face hard enough to make my eyes water. Or maybe that isn't the wind at all.
You saw nothing. You were never there. This didn't happen.
But it did happen.
And the worst part, the absolute worst part, is that I know, with sinking certainty, that tomorrow's meeting is going to be a freaking bloodbath.
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