The Wrong Place

It is almost 11:00pm, when the diner closes for the day.

Like clockwork.

For the past two years, every single Friday night has ended exactly the same way; me  closing the diner at that time,  so today is no different. At this point, my brain recognizes all the signs that signifies closing: how the lock sounds, like a knuckle cracking, and even the flickering of the neon lights twice before going off. And of course, my body remembers the feeling of the cold hitting me sharply, once I step outside, like a reluctant welcome back into the night.

Except tonight, it is colder than usual. I pull my coat tighter and start walking. My car is in the shop again for the third time this month so my options are the bus or my feet, and since I already missed the  lady bus at 10:55pm, no thanks to the till being kept in cash, meaning I had to count it by hand because Uncle Pete did not trust the counting machine. So, my feet, it is.

I am so tired that the long route home seems like punishment, so I decide to take the alley behind Fletcher street. Nothing about that decision is normal and I know it. I am a woman after all, and I am familiar with the million things that could happen, especially at that time of the night. But I do it anyway because my feet throb in pain from standing since three in the afternoon. My mother had also called twice during the dinner rush, which I suspect is because the pharmacy had ruined her blood pressure prescription somehow. Now I have to spend tomorrow morning on phone calls, being transferred and put on hold like something inconvenient, not to mention the sixty dollars I have to pay which I do not have right now, till I get paid in four days.

I am so tired. So tired it feels like even my bones, my organs, my blood, maybe even down there is tired too.

So I cut through the alley.

Their voices hit me first before I even see them.

Two voices, dropped so low and quick, like how people talk when they are angry but practically trying to whisper. I stop walking.

My brain tells me this is not safe, that it is best to turn back, head toward the streets and retrace my steps using the long way back. But my body is ignoring instructions and my feet won’t move at all.

Then I barely hear one of the voices as it drops even lower. It sound like “please”, and something about how desperate it sounds keeps my feet from moving. Eventually, after a few moments where my feet feel like dead weight, I finally move to the edge of the wall and look around the corner.

I see two men.  

One of them has his back against the brick wall, and I can see that his hands are up in the air like in the movies when the police call freeze, but I cannot see his face as it is turned away from me. I notice that he has on an expensive jacket and shoes. He looks like someone who owned rooms, only right now, he looks like he would rather be anywhere else in the world.

The second man is so close to him that it is obviously to threaten him, to make him know exactly how this ends. Also, he has a gun. My whole body freezes seeing the gun.

“You had one job. To keep quiet. That’s it. One simple thing,” the man holding the gun says. His voice carries no anger at all, which felt scary to me.

The man against the wall has tears running down his face now. “I didn’t say anything to anyone, I swear. I have a daughter…”

The gunman cuts him short with an “I know”. My heart stops.

I hear a small sound.  Small but so distinct that I was so sure that I would never forget it. Not loud like the sound of guns going off in movies, just a short, precisely small sound, like a crack, and the next thing I see is the expensive-looking man slowly sliding down the wall, falling to the side and not moving.

The shooter is already turning like his job is done.

My heart is beating so loudly, and I think I can hear it vibrating through my rib cage, as I stood there next to the wall, trying desperately not to move or even breathe loudly. Right now, it feels like every horror movie I have ever watched.

Footsteps. Slow. Getting closer.

They stop.

My heart beats so loudly I am sure now that I can hear it.  And not just me, everyone around me too.

Then the footsteps fade way. And hear a car door. And engine starting. The sound of tires as they drive away. And then nothing else.

I stand there for a long time. I literally cannot move. My body is not getting the signals to move from my brain yet. Everything around me feels like it’s moving in slow motion.

I am still shocked by what I saw so I look again and the man is still there on the floor. Really dead. I note his brown leather shoes, polished. I remember he said he had a daughter and my heart beats faster. I do the only breathing exercise I can think of to slow it down before I pass out.

In. Out. In. Out. I do that three more times.

Then I do the only thing that makes sense to do.

* * *

I call 911, and honestly, I am surprised with how steady my voice sounds. I tell the operator what I saw. I tell her where I am and how to find me, and describe the shooter the best way I can, under the circumstances.

 I also tell her that I think he is dead. She tells me to stay where I am, that officers would get here soon.

She is right and two officers arrive in less than ten minutes. They hear my account of everything, take my number and address. They say I did the right thing by calling the police.

My mouth is still so dry but I ask. “What happens now?”

They look to each other first, the air thick with suspense.

"The case gets moved up," the one who had been asking all the questions earlier says. "Handled at a different level."

"What level?"

He looks at me like I am asking too many questions, impatiently. “Above ours."

I look at him and ask directly. "What does that mean for me?"

His eyes hold mine for a while and I think I see something like pity flash behind it. "It means go home, Miss Brooks. Lock your door. We'll be in touch."

I feel tears straining behind my eyes that I can’t explain. I nod.

I walk somewhat fast with the keys to my apartment pressing hard into my palms. This time, I take the long way, and stay under the night streetlights throughout.

I get home. I lock the door first. Honestly, I really just want to feel safe right now. I turn on all the lights. Yes, all six lights in the apartment, even the one in the bathroom that won’t stop blinking. I should really change that bulb. I need the brightness to feel safe.  I sit on the bed. My hands won’t stop shaking.  They have been that way since the alley. I take a deep breath and try to stop the shaking by holding them together .

Nope. It doesn’t work. They are still shaking when I hear the car outside.

I get up and look outside my window. There’s what looks like a fancy black SUV in front of my building, three floors below, that sticks out in this neighborhood. No markings. No lights. Just sitting there.

The back door opens and a man steps out. He’s quite tall, in a dark suit.

And just like the fancy black SUV, this man looks completely out of place here. No one in this neighborhood dresses in a suit like that. Tailored and well, expensive. But despite looking off, he looks like he is exactly where he should be, nothing like what someone who was unfamiliar with the area would do when looking for an address.

Instead, he looks straight up at my window. Like he already knows the number. Like he is already familiar with it.

My phone rings on the bed behind me.  

Unknown number.

I struggle with whether to pick up for a full three seconds as I look at it. Then I answer.

"Miss Brooks." His voice is low and completely calm, the kind of voice that sounds like it bends to no one.

“Don't scream. I won’t hurt you. But if you don’t open your door in the next thirty seconds, the men who killed Raymond Holt tonight will find you. They already know your name, and they are not as patient as I am."

I come back to the window, and he’s still looking up at my window. 

He just waits. Like he’s used to being obeyed. I can’t see his face, just his outline. And somehow, he feels dangerous but also safe. It’s a feeling I can’t explain.

I think about what the officer said. Above our level.

I think about the man who I now know to be Raymond Holt sliding down that wall.

"Thirty seconds, Miss Brooks," he says on the phone.

I am already walking to my door.