Page 1 of Blood
1
Everleigh
Atthisrate,myhands will be too sweaty to hold my Colt 45. I wipe them on my black leggings for the fourth time.
I pat my side. The gun is still tucked in the waistband of my leggings, hidden under a loose shirt. It’s heavier than I thought it would be. The guy who handed it to me is waiting across the street, and I didn’t get a chance to ask him if it’s only this heavy when it’s loaded.
I look down, checking to make sure I can still see the bump of the knife strapped to my ankle. It’s not hidden well, but no one seems to be checking out my legs. Both of the weapons are fastened securely, not going anywhere, but since this is my first time doing this, I don’t want to lose anything.
I can’t fuck this up. This is my one chance. Do this, and I buy myself safety. Security.
A man in a faded Pink Floyd t-shirt walks toward the door of the apartment building. I slip out of where I’ve been waiting. The early afternoon light doesn’t offer any shadows of protection, so I walk casually—I hope—to the door, following just a little behind him. Far enough that it’s not weird, although not being weird has never been my strong suit. The goal is to be just close enough that he’ll feel bad if he doesn’t hold the door, but not so close that he really takes notice. Just enough to gain entry to the building.
Sure enough, the gamble pays off. The man pauses in the doorway, holding the door open while I walk toward him. I smile my thanks, sneaking a quick view at his face.
It’s not the guy I’m looking for. That probably wouldn’t be the most convenient, anyway. The lobby probably has cameras, and what would I do with a dead body in the common area here anyway?
The guy I’m looking for should be in his apartment, anyway. That’s why I’m here now, in the middle of the day. I always pictured crimes going down in the darkness of night, but my knowledge comes from old episodes of SVU and CSI rather than real life.
I cross the lobby to the elevators. There’s no security or doorman to stop me. The man who held the door, unwittingly aiding and abetting this felony, has stopped at his mailbox and is now ignoring me while he leafs through junk mail and catalogs.
He probably thinks I belong here, that I live in one of these crappy apartments. I look like I could belong here. This building isn’t exactly in the slums, but it’s not the Upper East Side, either. Anyone walking in here is likely to be lower middle class, barely scraping by, shit on by life. Desperate.
My apartment building is even worse than this one.
My sneakers are quiet on the faded, cracked laminate flooring. I step into the elevator and press 8, hoping I’m quick enough that the Pink Floyd guy doesn’t join me. Out of habit, I press the Door Close button a few times. Usually, I press it because I don’t want to talk to people. I’ve always been sort of socially awkward and confined spaces make it worse. If someone starts a conversation, I always say something to make it weird, and then we’re stuck there until the door opens. Like the time I was on the subway, and a woman asked how my day was going, and I told her that I’d learned that cutting someone’s femoral artery was a quick way to kill someone. She just gave me a look of horror and took a few steps away from me. Apparently, not everyone is into true crime podcasts.
Right now—well, I still don’t want to talk to anyone, but there’s a bit more at stake than just the chance I’d say something weird. And this isn’t a story on a podcast—it’s real life, even though I can’t believe it’smylife.
On the fourth floor, the elevator slows and comes to a stop with ading. The doors slide open. A woman peers in, reading glasses perched on her grey hair. “Is this one going down?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Nope! Going up!” I say brightly, stabbing at the Door Close button.
The doors slide closed as she gives me a strange look.
Fuck, my heart is racing now, and I haven’t even done anything other than gain illegal entry to a building. I take a deep breath to try to calm myself.
On the eighth floor, the doors slide open with anotherding. The sound echoes in the silence. I steel my nerves and tiptoe out into the hallway, checking the gun again to make sure it’s still there. My fingers find my mother’s necklace, the silver locket heavy against my chest. I run my fingers over the engravings. Over the last year I’ve found myself touching it, almost unconsciously, whenever I’m stressed, which has been almost all the time.
I take another breath. I can do this.
I have to do this.
2
Everleigh
Mybrotheristhereason for all of this. He’s ten years older than me and always seemed godlike while I was growing up, and I wanted to be just like him. Even when Asher started getting into trouble at school, he was always there to stand up for me. Now that my parents are gone, he’s the only family I have left.
They’re catching up to me. It’s just a game, I think—boys chasing girls on the playground, that sort of thing, although you’d think now that I’m in fourth grade they’d have grown out of it. These two sixth graders, Ryan and Jack, have been teasing me for a few weeks. I like the attention sometimes, but their expressions when we got off the bus? Terrifying.
But it’s all just a game… I hope.
My driveway is in view. They’re only a few yards behind me now.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Asher appears from behind the car in the driveway, fuming. At almost eighteen, he’s more than a head taller than the boys and has the obvious strength advantage.
Ryan and Jack hesitate in their steps, slowing down when I nearly plow right into Asher. I catch my breath, staring at the two boys who told me they were going to show me theirs and then make me show them mine. They stagger to a stop in the street.
