Chapter 5

Chapter

Five

"Are you sure you want to be dropped off here?" Paul leans forward on the steering wheel and stares out the window while the SUV crawls through the sketchy neighborhood. The scarcity of other cars on the road feels ominous. The electric door locks click several times as if he's nervously tapping the button out of protectiveness. "This isn't the best part of the city to walk around in, especially after the sun goes down. I don't even like driving through here. Let me take you somewhere else, anywhere else. I can drive you into Manhattan. It's not a problem."

"I'll be fine," I say.

Though, I see what he means. The graffitied avenue of sadness that makes up this street is littered with people and their broken dreams. I can't imagine they all wanted to be strung out and dirty when they were children fantasizing about their lives. Or perhaps I'm just being judgmental as we watch them from the safety of Paul's car like we're on a safari through urban decay. Not everyone is sad. A man laughs hysterically as he talks to himself, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk. With each step, he swats frantically at imaginary tormentors.

At least, I hope they're imaginary. Sometimes, those crazy people you see on the street aren't so crazy.

"You okay back there, Di?" Paul asks.

"What's wrong with that man?" she counters.

"He's, uh, sick," Paul says.

Some of the graffiti catches my eye. The symbols are familiar, though I can't translate them, indicating vampire hunting territories or something just as sinister. Why would Conrad send me here? He knows I don't share his fascination with the undead.

I remind myself that this is the last place anyone would look for me. The knot of dread in my stomach is just my fear overreacting. Sunset isn't for another hour or so, and once inside, I should be safe from any night threats. Conrad knows what he is doing. I can trust him.

I finish tying the laces on my running sneakers before shoving the heels into the backpack on the floor between my feet. Conrad had grabbed my workout clothes. They were probably the only thing he'd found in the car. The shoes don't go with the funeral dress I still wear, but thankfully, the socks are clean.

I check the address and mumble to myself, "Apartment 204."

"Seriously, Tamara, I—" Paul touches my arm briefly as if to stop me physically before instantly letting go.

"I won't be here long," I cut him off. "It's fine. I promise. You've helped enough just giving me the ride."

His look says he doesn't believe me. "I can wait."

His fingers drum the steering wheel, and I can imagine the battle going on with his conscience.

"Diana shouldn't be here," I insist. "You should take her home."

"Why can't I come with you?" Diana protests.

I turn to look at her and shake my head in denial. "You just can't. Sorry."

"I think this is it, up ahead," Paul says.

At least the small apartment building doesn't look like a crack den. The steps leading to the front door are well-maintained and free of litter. I can't say the same for some of its neighbors down the street, where decrepit houses are in paint-chipped disarray, with broken windows and trash hugging the edges of their concrete lawns. Paul slows the car but doesn't stop completely as he watches a couple stumble past. Their unsteady steps give evidence of their intoxicated state.

"You're not here to…" He again hesitates as if choosing his words carefully. I assume it's for his daughter's sake.

"Score?" I give a small laugh. "No. Not my vacation of choice."

"We are going on vacation to Kansas City," Diana offers. "You can come with us. Grandma can make any cookie in the world."

"Diana," Paul scolds, his voice tense. "You can't just invite people on vacation. Besides, the decision isn't final. I said we'd see."

"Why not?" the girl shoots back.

"Because—"

"You said we could do what I wanted after the funeral," Diana persists. "I want Tamara to go to Kansas City with us."

"I meant to a park or out to eat." Paul appears frustrated.

"That's not what you said. You said anything."

"Thank you for the ride," I interrupt their back and forth, sliding my fingers onto the door handle.

"Let me get closer to the front door." Paul swings the car around and pulls up along the sidewalk. He takes his phone from the center console. "Here. Call your phone so you have my number. I can come back and pick you up if things don't work out."

"So can a taxi," I answer.

"No car service is coming down here," he denies, insistently bouncing his phone, "especially after dark."

Logic tells me giving my number to him is a mistake. The goal should be to cut off future contact for their sake more than mine. Still, I find myself taking his offer and calling my phone. I notice he has several missed text messages, but I resist the urge to tap the notification to look at them. Hearing a ring in the backpack, I end the call and give his phone back to him. Our fingers touch briefly, but the feel of the contact lingers on my hand.

Why am I obsessed with his hands?

"Thank you again for the ride." It seems stupid since I've already said that, and it's not at all what I want to tell him. What I want to say isn't fit for the chaperone in the back seat. I remind myself this is not the end of a date. "Diana, pleasure to meet you."

"Will you come to my softball game?" Diana asks, wiggling against her seatbelt.

I feel bad for the kid. Her tone is almost desperate, and I know what she's been through today. I can't bring myself to tell her no.

"We'll see," is all I can think to say.

"That means no," she counters with a pout.

I take off Paul's jacket and leave it as I get out of the car. Slinging the backpack over my shoulder, I cradle my hand against it and lean back in to look at him. "Are you sure I can't pay you back for dinner or gas?"

He frowns and waves dismissively, indicating that the idea is absurd. "I should be thanking you. This ended up being a much-needed distraction from today."

It's been the same for me too. I didn't think anything could distract me from a triple funeral.

I find myself not wanting to leave them and the safe life they represent. I have to keep reminding myself that I'm a visitor in their normal world. And, in order for it to remain safe and normal, they should get out of this neighborhood.

"Bye, Paul, Diana." I make myself shut the door before saying more as an excuse to linger.

I resist the urge to look back as I scan my surroundings and make a beeline for the entrance. The list of names on the old intercom system is unreadable. Still, I buzz 204 to let me in. I'm not sure the system is working. Nothing seems to happen, and no one answers.

I glance toward the street. Paul and Diana watch me from the parked car. It's sweet that he's making sure I get safely inside.

I try the glass security door. It sticks a little, but it opens. It's not exactly like breaking into Fort Knox. I look back one last time and give a wave.

A layer of grime covers the lobby floor. Someone had tried to mop but only sloshed the dirt around the tiny space. A waft of urine mixes with what I can only describe as dying flowers. The wall of dented mailboxes has seen better days. Florescent lights flicker. The sound of them is abnormally loud.

I don't see an elevator, so I head up the stairs. The smell becomes mustier, like old plaster and mold.

I touch the amulet on my necklace to ensure it is hidden under my shirt. Now that I'm here, I have to question Conrad's logic.

Why would he send me to this place?

Maybe he gave me the wrong address.

Is this one of the Devine family holdings? How did he even know about it?

I think of the vampire symbols outside. Conrad has been very into vampire culture lately, at least superficially. Did one of his friends tell him about it?

At the end of my mental storm, I decide it doesn't matter. I'm here. Conrad is talking to the lawyers. This will all be over soon.

A small security camera is pointed at the top of the stairs. Someone had anchored it to the ceiling. I duck my head, wondering who would be watching in a place like this.

Apartment 204 is easy to find. My hand shakes with nerves as I knock. I wonder who will answer and pray it's not vampires. They made me nervous before. Now, without my parents acting as an invisible shield, I feel much less protected.

I panic and start to turn away. If I run, I might be able to catch Paul. But it's too late to change my mind. The slide of a lock clicks. I back up and press against the other side of the hallway. Chipped paint crunches along my back as I make contact. I hug the backpack against my chest like body armor.

The woman who answers the door looks frail, but her jerky movements appear angry. The smoke from her cigarette dances and curls as she holds it in her mouth. Graying brown hair is pulled back to the nape of her neck, but I can see personal appearance is not a priority. Her arms are made up of loose skin and sores. I see them briefly before she finishes pulling on a sweater jacket to hide them.

"Did you bring my money?" She pulls the cigarette from her lips, walking away as she leaves the door open for me to follow. It occurs to me that she's not scared of letting a stranger inside. I find that odd.

Her bare feet shuffle on the wooden floors and worn rugs. A dusty poster of a rodeo cowboy is thumb-tacked to the entryway. I wonder if the woman is a fan of the sport or simply likes the display of abs.

"You're expecting me?" I follow cautiously and shut the door behind me without locking it. I want to make sure I have a way out. I glance into a small, empty kitchen. I get a whiff of rotten food from the dirty plates littering the counter and the overflowing trash can. I move closer to my hostess.

"Welcome to my shithole." She grabs a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from a shelf before falling back onto an old couch. The cushions are intact but worn and sagging with the imprint of her body. The stark light comes from a lamp minus its shade on a scuffed end table. A half-empty whiskey bottle waits next to a plastic cup and soda can. Balled-up fast food wrappers lay scattered at her feet.

This place could do with fresh air. I glance at the windows behind her but see the thick bars welded over them and the nails poking out of the frame to keep it shut.

She takes a long draw off the cigarette and crosses her arms as she stares at me. Smoke unceremoniously furls from her mouth as she speaks. "You happen to have more smokes in that bag of yours? Food?"

I give a slight shake of my head. "I didn't know I was supposed to bring them."

I swear she looks at me like I'm an idiot. Though, I really don't know her well enough to judge for sure. It's possible that annoyed irritation is just her natural resting state.

"I'm Tamara," I say. "Thank you for letting me hang out here."

The woman cackles as the lit cigarette dangles from her lips. I get a glimpse of yellowed teeth. The cigarette bounces as she mutters. "I'm not letting you do shit."

She reaches for the cigarette pack and pulls out a new one. I glance up to see a security camera anchored to the living room's ceiling.

"May I ask who's watching us right now?" I point toward the camera.

"Oh." She fingers the new cigarette and uses it to point in the same direction. "My son put those in for me. He's a good boy. Takes care of his mama."

She laughs as if it's the funniest thing ever said before choking back a long drink.

"Your son?" I prompt, still standing. I start to feel a little lightheaded.

I tried to be polite, but this place is gross.

"You got the cash?" She nods at the bag.

"Who's your son?" I repeat. I adjust the backpack on my shoulder. Is this why Conrad sent cash with me? To give it to this woman?

She flicks the old cigarette's ash into the soda can she's using as an ashtray before tamping it out. "Look. The deal is cash to crash. This isn't a fucking bed and breakfast, and we're not going to chat and be friends. Now, do you have my cash or not?"

This woman is a real piece of work.

A series of loud thuds reverberate behind me, and I turn to see Diana flying into the apartment. I startle in surprise, but before I can move, she collides into me.

"I want to come with you," she says, wrapping her arms around my legs.

"Whoa, whoa," my bitchy hostess protests. "No one said anything about kids. This ain't no fucking daycare."

I pry the girl off me so I can look at her. "Diana, what are you?—?"

"Ugh, it stinks in here!" Diana holds her nose and gags.

She's right. It smells like old Easter eggs, and it's getting worse.

"Di!" Paul's yell comes from far away.

"I don't need this. Get the fuck out of my house." The woman stands, shooing with her arms to get us to move. She throws back the liquor in her cup before putting the cigarette in her mouth.

I'm lightheaded, and I'm starting to feel a little nauseous.

Oh fuck.

Gas.

"Diana!" Paul yells, closer than before.

The woman lifts the lighter.

"No!" I sweep my arm across Diana's chest, half lifting and half dragging the girl as I run toward the door.

I hear the spark wheel turn.

The loud whoosh of an explosion ignites behind us. The force of it pushes us through the door. Diana screams. I feel the heat on my back and wrap my arms around her. My yell joins hers as I close my eyes tight.

I don't expect us to make it.

I gasp for breath, stunned that I can breathe. I open my eyes to find a soft blue glow emanating from my skin like a protective shield. I'm not magical, so I have no clue where it's coming from. The flames crackle and roar all around us. The apartment is engulfed, and the fire has spilled into the hallway. Smoke clouds the air.

Adrenaline pumps through me. I grip Diana tight and run toward the stairs. It's hard to hold on to her and the backpack at the same time, but it's strapped over my shoulder, and I can't drop it.

"Diana!" Paul is there, screaming toward the flames. We crash into him, all three tumbling a few steps down before he manages to stop our fall.

"Go, go, go!" I yell, guiding Diana's back to make her hurry. Paul pulls his daughter into his arms.

The fire rages, and all I can think of is survival. I cover my mouth with my sleeve as I run down the stairwell.

We hit the bottom of the stairs. Paul grabs my arm while still holding his daughter. He pulls me behind him toward the front door. I let him guide my steps as I look back.

People gather on the sidewalk outside to watch the flames against the night sky. Shouting comes from those trying to escape the blaze, adding to the chaos. They jump from the second-story windows.

"Yo, dude, what happened?" A guy yells, puffing out his chest as he tries to stop us.

Paul sidesteps him and keeps going. His car is parked halfway up the block on the wrong side of the street. It's up on the curb, and the engine is running.

He sets Diana down and grabs her face. "Are you hurt?"

She cries and gasps for breath. Her words are incoherent whines between sobs.

Paul feels her arms and legs, searching for injury, as he says in relief, "You're okay. It's okay."

He opens the car door and lifts her inside.

Paul turns to me and holds my face, searching my eyes. "Are you hurt?"

He starts to repeat the panicky process of checking for injuries. His hands start running down my arms. I'm relieved he came back, even if it was for his daughter.

"Hey! That's them. What'd you do?" a man yells. Some of the crowd has turned toward us.

I stop Paul's hands. "We should get out of here."

He nudges me to go around the front of the car as he gets into the driver's side.

Something strikes the car window. As it resonates through the vehicle, Diana whimpers in fear. She quickly curls into a ball on the floor behind her dad's seat, seeking refuge from the threat.

I reach for the door handle. Paul stomps on the gas pedal, and we accelerate down the street before I close the car door, leaving tire tracks behind us.