Page 12 of The Birthday Girl
She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The air in the living room was suddenly thick and hot as if her couch had been set aflame, the diamond a pinpoint of fire burning into her skull.
All she could think about was someone having Tyriq. The ear told her nothing. There was no telling if he was alive or not, but someone wanted her to know he was in danger. Wanted her afraid, trembling, off balance.
She stumbled to the bathroom, clutching the box in her hand, and scrabbled inside the medicine cabinet for the orange bottle she had hidden behind the toothpaste. She tossed two Vicodin down and sipped water from the faucet.
Shanice leaned against the wall, taking a moment to calm down so she could think. Where was Tyriq? Why hadn’t he called? Should she try his phone? Yeah. That was it. She would call.
With that decided, she headed to her bedroom and snatched her phone off the nightstand. She dialed Tyriq three times, but the call went straight to his full voicemail.
By the fourth try, Shanice’s fingers were shaking so badly she nearly dropped the phone.
She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the whimper clawing its way out of her throat.
Her son stirred in the other room, and she froze, holding her breath until she heard the cartoon voices rise again, drowning out the silence.
She sank onto the edge of her bed, the black box still clutched in her lap. The sight of it made her skin crawl.
Who had put it there?
Who knew where she lived?
And what would they do next?
It didn’t matter. She didn’t have it in her to wait for something else to happen.
She shoved the black box deep in her purse, zipped it shut, and stalked down the hall to her son’s bedroom.
The boy was curled in a nest of blankets, his chubby legs tangled as a sticky film of juice crusted around his mouth.
Shanice hoisted him up, and his head dropped onto her shoulder as he whimpered, “No, Mommy, I'm sleepin’.”
She ignored the protest, grabbed his shoes, and crushed his little hoodie over his head, careful to keep her hands steady.
She hustled out the door before second-guessing herself, barely remembering to lock up. The box thudded against her thigh on every step down the apartment stairs.
The precinct was only fifteen minutes away, but she drove like she was being hunted, checking the mirror and taking random turns. She nearly got herself T-boned at 21st & Federal because she jerked the wheel without looking, panic a living animal beneath her breastbone.
The baby started to cry in his car seat, and she reached back, rubbing his knee, the gesture automatic, her mind doing somersaults through every man, woman, or ghost who might want to hurt Tyriq, or her, or both.
Five minutes later, Shanice pushed through the precinct’s heavy glass doors and hurried to the front desk, her nails clicking against the counter as if her nerves were trying to escape through her fingertips.
It had been almost a month since she’d last heard from Tyriq, and panic had burrowed itself deep in her bones.
He might have had a habit of disappearing, but never that long, and never without a word, but it wasn’t just his silence that terrified her.
The feeling of being watched had grown worse with every passing second.
She’d remembered a black sedan shadowing her twice on her way home, its driver’s side window inching down a sliver to reveal the gleam of cold eyes tracking her movements.
More than once, she heard footsteps behind her on the stairwell of her apartment building, but every time she spun around, the landing was empty.
Just two days ago, her phone rang at midnight from a blocked number, and she answered, heart racing, only to hear someone whisper her name before the line went dead. However, women had played on her phone before over a man, so she hadn’t put too much stock in it then.
“Mommy, a lady came to my school today. She asked me questions about Daddy. She said she was your friend.” Kali’s voice replayed in her head, and that was the worst of it.
A new flavor of dread gnawed at Shanice as she tried to process the implications while the desk sergeant, an older woman with a mouth drawn in an unamused line, tapped at a keyboard, eyes darting from monitor to Shanice and back again ever so often.
“Excuse me.” Shanice waved her hand at the woman. “Excuse me!”
“Can I help you?” the desk sergeant asked, her tone anything but friendly.
“Yes,” Shanice said quickly, adjusting her son on her hip. “I need to speak with Detective Marcus Vega.”
The officer’s brows lifted slightly, surprise crossing her features before they settled back into disinterest. “Detective Vega’s on desk duty. He doesn’t take walk-ins.”
Shanice’s heart thumped harder. “I understand, but I need to speak with him. It’s important.”
“Ma’am, there are other detectives available who—”
“I said Vega!” She hugged her son tighter, rocking on her heels.
“I know him. He put the man who killed my brother away a few years ago, and was the only cop who ever looked me in the eye and told me the truth.” Her throat worked around the lump rising there.
“I trust him. Please. Just get him. I don’t want anyone else. I’ll only talk to him.”
The officer exhaled slowly, clearly irritated, but Shanice’s refusal left her no choice. She reached for the phone, whispered something into the receiver, and hung up with a sharp clack.
“Have a seat,” she said, nodding toward the plastic chairs bolted against the wall.
Shanice nodded and moved to do as she'd been told.
The plastic chair was cold against her thighs as her knee jackhammered up and down while her fingers twisted in her lap.
Three times she half-rose, eyes darting to the exit sign's red glow, before sinking back down.
Each time she closed her eyes, she saw the black sedan, and heard her daughter's voice saying, “A lady came to my school,” and felt phantom breath on the back of her neck.
Detective Marcus Vega eventually appeared, his shoulders slouched, tie loosened, the weight of humiliation clinging to him like a second skin. Once one of the department’s rising stars, he now moved through the precinct with none of the swagger he used to own.
A botched case had dismantled his reputation piece by piece, and the fallout left him stripped of the work he thrived on. Now, Vega was stuck behind a desk, drowning in paperwork and parking disputes, waking each morning to the bitter taste of disgrace.
Vega hadn’t been called to the front desk in months, and the irritation was evident in the set. “Who’s looking for me?” he asked the desk sergeant, and she pointed at Shanice. “What’s this about?”
“Beats me, but she's insisting on speaking with you and only you.” The woman gestured toward Shanice with a flick of her chin. “Wouldn't take no for an answer.”
Vega turned, his eyes narrowing as he took in the tight grip Shanice had on her bag strap and the tremor in her hands. When she noticed him watching, she rose to her feet to meet him.
“Come with me,” Vega ordered before leading Shanice through a maze of hallways, echoing with half-heard arguments and the cackle of a woman in holding.
Vega led Shanice into a cramped interview room, the cinderblock walls painted a dull gray. He gestured to a chair across the metal table.
“Sit,” he ordered.
Shanice eased into the seat, clutching her purse against her chest like it might vanish if she let go. Her son squirmed in her lap, whining softly until she hushed him. Vega sat opposite her, elbows braced on the table, expression unreadable.
“You said you only wanted to talk to me, so get to it,” he prompted.
Her throat tightened, and she gently set her son on the chair beside her, then fumbled with the zipper of her purse. For a second, she froze, unable to breathe, then she forced her hand inside and pulled out the little black box.
It looked almost delicate sitting there on the table, the satin bow slightly crumpled from the ride over.
Vega frowned. “What’s this?”
“Open it,” Shanice whispered, her voice breaking.
He hesitated, then peeled the lid back.
The moment the velvet lining came into view, his eyes cocked. The severed ear lay tilted in the white cushion, its diamond stud winking beneath the harsh light.
Shanice turned her face away, pressing her fist to her mouth to keep from gagging. Her son fussed at her side, reaching toward her dress, oblivious.
Vega shut the box with a snap that echoed off the walls, and his eyes cut to Shanice. “Where did you get this?”
Her voice shook. “It was sitting on the ground in front of my door when I came home from the club last night. I was drunk, so I didn’t open it until roughly thirty minutes ago.”
Vega leaned back slowly, his chair creaking under his weight. He didn’t move for a long moment, only studied her, as if trying to decide whether she was lying or telling him the first truth he’d heard in years.
Finally, he pushed the box aside with two fingers and folded his hands on the table. “Alright, Shanice. If what you’re saying is true, then you’ve got to walk me through everything that happened in your life leading up to the box on your doorstep. Don’t leave anything out.”