Page 52 of The Second Sight
I checked the time, 8:07 PM. My heart sank into my stomach. I was supposed to be at work at 4:00 PM for the evening shift. I’d completely lost track of time in Seven’s world, forgetting that real life, my life, continued outside these walls.
With trembling fingers, I opened my dad’s texts first, scrolling from oldest to newest:
DAD
Hey Kasi, just checking in. Let me know you’re okay.
It’s one. Haven’t heard from you since you left this morning. Everything alright?
Kasi, please call me when you get this.
Miss Ellen called. Said you didn’t show up for work.
Getting worried. Call me ASAP.
Each message grew progressively more frantic, culminating in the final one sent just twenty minutes ago:
DAD
Kasinda Bacchar, I’ve been calling everywhere looking for you. Your location said you’re at some house in some neighborhood before I lost tracking. Get home NOW! If I don’t hear from you in the next hour. I’m calling the police.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I muttered, quickly opening Brooklyn’s messages. She’d started casually, asking how my location, but her tone had shifted to concern when I hadn’t responded.
I tapped her contact and called, pacing nervously while clutching the sheet around me. She answered on the first ring.
“Kasi! Where the hell you been?” Brooklyn’s voice was equal parts relief and anger.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, my words rushing out. “My phone died, and I lost track of time, and?—”
“Girl, your dad is freaking the fuck out. He called me like five times. Miss Ellen called me. I drove to Razzle Dazzle and worked the register, but your dad can see your location just like I can, and he knows something’s up.”
“You covered my shift?” I felt a rush of gratitude through my panic.
“Of course I did. But you owe me, cause you know that voodoo lady scares me. Is you cool? You dad said you left the house this morning with some White man.”
“Seven.”
“I figured it was him, but I didn’t tell your dad I knew him. I just played dumb like I ain’t know who dude was.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” I glanced at the ancient books spread across the bed.
“You better get your black ass back home. Your dad is talking about calling “dem boys on you.”
“I saw this text. He is a pissed postal worker. I would not play ‘dem games with Mr. Malcom Bacchar.”
“Listen, I need a ride. Can you come get me?” I asked, hoping I wouldn’t have to take an Uber alone.
“Where are you?”
“My location should be available again now that I have a charge.”
“Okay, yeah, I see it. 6967 Mayflower Lane. You’re really in Hinsdale?”
“Yeah, that’s it. I’m here.”
“At Seven’s place.”
“Yeah. I’m at his house.”
