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And then I remember.

Not the killing.Not the part where he bled for me.Not even the things he said in the end.

I remember the first time he put me in his car.

My wrists were raw.My mouth tasted like metal.I’d said it was a mistake, when what I meant wasyou have the wrong girl.

He didn’t respond.

Just strapped me in, climbed behind the wheel, and—adjusted the vent.

So I wouldn’t be cold.

He thought I was unconscious.Mostly, I was.But I remember that.

It wasn’t just kindness.

It was instinct.

He saw people.Even when he didn’t want to.

Even when it hurt.

I slide the letter back where I found it.

Then I grab the black book.

And go.

65

Marlowe

She’s late today.

That’s the first break in the pattern.

She usually leaves the urgent care by 8:12 p.m.Today, it’s 9:17.

Maybe she argued with the doctor.Maybe the front desk asked one too many questions.Doesn’t matter.

She’s holding the kid’s hand tighter than usual.Not like a mother.Like a leash.

I follow.

Half a block behind.Same side of the street.

She orders a smoothie.Tells the kid he can’t have any.Says it’s “for mommy’s blood sugar.”Then complains about the price loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Six dollars for fruit and ice?”she says, already pulling out a metal straw from her purse like this is a whole routine.“You’d think I was asking them to juice a diamond.”

She points to a teenager behind the counter and says, “Last time it wasn’t this much.Are you guys just making it up now?”

The kid tugs at her sleeve.She swats his hand away without looking.“Can you stop?Seriously.Mommy is trying to deal with incompetence.”

Then to the barista: “He’s allergic to strawberries.Don’t mess it up.If you send him into anaphylaxis, it’s on you.”

The kid doesn’t look allergic.He looks tired.And hungry.And like this is every Thursday.