Page 34 of House of Cards

Forget the fucking milk.

What’s happening right now?

The same man who terrified and violated me yesterday standing there in a towel asking me if I’m lactose intolerant as some twisted part of my brain catalogs the fascinating way water droplets trace paths down his chest?

That’snuts.

Smith puts his glasses back on, his eyes returning to the breakfast cart as if he’s searching for something to eat. My gaze darts back to the newspaper, specifically the headline sprawled in thousand-point type on the front page.

FAMILY DINER BURNS AS TURF WARS HEAT UP

…completely destroyed in last night’s fire…

…marks the third local business destroyed by fire in the past month…

…was rescued from his second-floor apartment and remains in critical condition at…

…suggest mounting tensions between rival organizations…

…possible connections to recent drug-related violence in the area…

I try reading the article, but my eyes keep jumping back to the photo. Blackened, crumbling walls. Columns of smoke.

No!

I curl my hand into a fist when it starts shaking.

This isn’t real. This isn’treal.

But even though it’s only been a week, I know it is. Buzzcut burned down my diner to smoke me out, and I wasn’t even there to be caught in the flames. The cosmic joke that is my life has officially stopped being funny.

With the diner gone, I’ve lost my job, my home, and my last connection to Mom.

If that was all, I’d be okay with it.

But that diner meant everything to Mom. Her pride and joy. Now all that’s left of my mother’s legacy is ash and rubble.

I blink back tears, focusing on the article’s photo.

Only one of the diner’s walls survived partially intact. The photographer captured it at just the right angle to make out the words spray-painted on the bricks.

Good thing I hadn’t been holding anything, because as soon as I’ve deciphered those words, a rush of icy heat surges through my body, following by a wave of numbness.

UR. A$$ IS MINE

Buzzcut’s message is clear. He isn’t just coming for his money anymore, he’s coming forme.

If he wants to kill me, he’ll have to find me first.

Smith

I open the first aid kit I retrieved from the bathroom, glancing over at Zoey as I disinfect my wound and slap on a band-aid. Her hands worry at the edge of the towel wrapped around her body, like she’s wondering if she’s going to have to fight me off her when I’m done.

She watches, silent and hollow-eyed, as I go over to the hotel phone and key in my code. I feel the weight of her stare as I ask for a replacement breakfast order, some clothes for Zoey, and a few other essentials.

Since she knocked over the milk while she was trying to escape, we both have to drink our coffee black. She barely touches hers. I drain the dark, rich roast in a few gulps.

We’re both silent for a while, staring through the window, watching the city as it wakes.

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