My fingers fly over the keyboard as I type a quick reply:
Glad you love it! I’ll tweak the eyes and title contrast and send over a revised version tomorrow. Thanks for the feedback!
I hit send, then click over to my personal inbox. Another unread message.
From:Aunt Dorene
Subject:Thought of you when I saw this!
A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips. I click it open and see a link to an article:20 Funniest Graphic Design Fails That Will Make You Question Everything.
Aunt Dorene always does this—finds little things that remind her of me, sending them with no expectations, just a quiet, steady presence.
Her email continues:
Mila-bug, hope you’re having fun in PA visiting friends. Call me when you can! Love you.
A pang hits my chest, one I refuse to name because it would involve words likedishonesty,deceitandbetrayal. Visitingfriends. That’s what I told her. The lie is innocent enough. She doesn’t need to know the truth.
She doesn’t need to know I came here alone and I have no friends in Pittsburgh. She most definitely doesn’t need to know that I think my life is in danger, and that one of my reasons for leaving her and Florida behind was to keep her safe.
I quickly type back:
Haha, these are hilarious! I’ll call you soon. Love you too.
I close the laptop and exhale, the weight of uncertainty, fear and helplessness settling on me in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
I slump onto the bed, one hand gripping my phone, the other balled into a fist that rubs at the tightness over my chest. I don’t want to do it, but I make myself.
Pulling up my texts, I scroll to the one from an unknown number and force myself to read the messages. I skim the most recent ones, the last coming in a mere hour ago.
1:23 a.m.:You think you got away with it, but you didn’t.
7:04 a.m.:Traitors don’t get happy endings, Mila. You’ll pay for what you did.
11:56 a.m.:Hope you’re watching your back. Better lock your doors at night.
10:15 p.m.:It’s almost time.
A shudder rolls through me, cold and uncontrollable, with a wave of fear so strong, a tiny cry escapes my lips. I bolt off the bed and cross the room in three long strides, again checking the locks on the hotel door. Dead bolt engaged. Security latch in place. I look out the peephole but can’t see anything except that no one is standing directly on the other side.
My fingers tremble as I double-check the windows, even though I’m on the sixth floor. Ridiculous, really. Spider-Man isn’t coming for me.
I inhale and exhale several times, reassuring myself that I am safe for the moment. I am behind secured doors, I have the ability to call for help grasped tight in my hand, and I have a can of Mace that I’m not afraid to use. Spray first—ask questions later.
“You’re okay, Mila. You’re okay.” I tell myself over and over again, out loud, so that my own psyche knows I mean it.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been able to talk myself off the ledge and eventually, my heartbeat settles. Still, that feeling lingers—a slithering unease, the paranoia creeping into my bones.
Why did I think coming here was a good idea?
Why did I think Penn—of all people—might be able to help me?
Maybe it was because, back then, when everything started unraveling, he tried to look out for me in his own way.
He tried to warn me. “Don’t do it, Mila. It’ll only pull you into something you can’t undo.”
Maybe it was because I thought, deep down, he’d understand what it felt like to be marked by something you couldn’t escape. He was targeted same as me, all those years ago.
