Page 7 of The Hitch
Someone has been here. Someone broke into my apartment, wrote on my fucking shower, and left me a rose?
"Nope. Nope, nope, nope." I'm sure I sound insane talking to myself like this, but what elsecanI do? I grab the rose and shove it into the trash bag by the door. My phone buzzes again—shit, I'm going to be late. I rush out the door and triple-check the lock. No scratches, the door frame is intact, everything looks… well, a little grimy, but it always does.
"I'm going crazy," I whisper to myself. Thathasto be it. No one really knows me in this city, and certainly not well enough to come into my home. It had to have been me. The melatonin is affecting my memory, that's all.
My workday is a blur. Try as I might, I can't get the rose—or note—out of my mind. Where would I even get a flower like that? Where would I get a ribbon? Did I pick it up in New Jersey? And why on earth would I write a note to myself on the shower door?
HI MELODY
The image flashes through my mind, forcing its way to the surface every time I greet the customers. I serve up pies and crab cakes, sandwiches and coffee, all on autopilot. I even smile and nod my way through Chet scolding me for leaving like I did yesterday. Yep, you're right, so sorry, won't happen again. The same refrain, over and over, until he's placated.
Everything goes well, or as well as it can, with no major fuck ups or broken dishes. The only angry one here is Chet, but he never lets the customers see his true self. In a way, it's relatable. I'llneverlet anyone see behind the curtains. Well, unless I want to be imprisoned for some reason.
My stomach growls near the end of my shift. Chet doesn't allow employee discounts, and the diner isn't as cheap as it looks. Checking the tips in my server book, my heart sinks. Sleep for dinner again tonight. I sigh and rake my hand down my face. I'm really not sure how much longer I can hold out like this. My flight-risk fund, as I like to call it, isn't growing like I hoped it would. With rent due in a week, all I can really afford to do is wait for Chet to take a smoke break and slide a loaf of bread into my purse. It'll have to do.
"Hi, Melody."
I nearly jump out of my skin at the register and whirl around, face-to-face with Chet's wife, Andrea. "Oh! Hi!" I wring my hands and snatch a rag from under the counter.
"Can we talk?" Andrea's smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. Fuck. My heart sinks into my feet, and I nod, following her into the manager's office.
"Is everything okay?" I ask, still gripping the damp rag. She sighs.
"Well, yes and no. You're very good with the customers, and we appreciate that you're always on time. But, um." She coughs. "Could you please get your purse?"
Shit. Shit! I didn't think about Andrea when I snagged the bread. Or cheese. She follows me back to the kitchen, and I grab my bag from the employee shelf.
"Open it, please."
My whole upper body burns in shame as I bring out the seed bread and block of cheddar. Andrea sighs and takes them from me.
"I'm sorry," I mumble. I don't know what else to say. Andrea stays silent for a beat, just looking at me. I swear I can feel myself burst into flames. I want to crawl into a hole. I want to run away to the woods. I want to flee to Mexico.
"Are you in some kind of financial trouble? I mean, I know the tips haven't been great. Butstealing?Really?" Andrea's disappointment is palpable. God dammit. I can't justtellher why I'm broke, why I came to the city with barely a hundred bucks to my name.
"It's just been a hard couple of months."
"Hmm. I'm sorry to hear that, but I can't just let this go." She lays a hand on my forearm. I stare at her manicured fingernails, classic blush pink and white tips. "You still have a job here. But the slow season is coming up. Everyone goes down the shore for summer, and they don't usually eat at local places as much."
"What?" I stutter. I'm not even sure I heard anything after her saying I still have a job.
"We'll have to cut your hours. I'm sorry."
Motherfuck.
It takes all of my resolve to keep the tears from streaming down my face as I hustle down the hall to my apartment door. I fumble with the keys and drop them at my feet. "God dammit," I grumble, resting my forehead on the cool metal door. All of my thoughts swirl in my mind, and that goddamn itch under my skin is back.
Using the doorknob for stability, I reach down to my keys—but the knob twists in my hand. My apartment was unlocked. My apartment was unlocked? All day? I checked the locks three times, I know I did, what the fuck?
My hands shake as I push my way in, head on a swivel, looking for anything out of the ordinary. My breath catches in my throat as I see another fucking rose. It sits on the windowsill, across the room from the door. Iknowit wasn't there this morning. Just to confirm my own memory, I check the trash can.
It's empty. It's completely empty, with a fresh new liner. My pulse pounds in my ears—someone wasinhere. Someone took out my trash, and… and put a fucking rose on my windowsill. I stomp over to the window and grab the stem—fuck. Hissing in a breath, I drop the damn thing. The thorns pierced my skin. Little droplets of blood bead in my palm.
I blink, and the blood pours from my hand, down my arm, pooling on the floor. I can feel the weight of the knife. I can smell the viscera in the air. I can see Charlie's corpse lying there on the carpet bleeding out. His vacant eyes stare into space, unfocusedand dull. I see his slackened jaw, his bloodied teeth, his sallow skin.
I blink again, and it's gone. Huffing out a sigh, my breath scatters chips of paint from the windowsill. My chest seizes, and I can't get enough air—someone pried the window loose. Someone broke through all the layers of paint and opened my fucking window. Terrified of what I might find, I shakily peek at the sliding lock.
It's gone.
