"Gage, please." He moves to stand beside me at the balustrade, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and expensive. "And yes, I make it my business to know about things that interest me."
"And I interest you?" I keep my voice neutral despite the warning bells ringing in my head.
"More than you know." He glances at his watch, an understated piece that probably costs more than my annual rent. "Your car will be here soon. You should be careful. Chicago can be dangerous after dark."
My phone buzzes with a notification that my rideshare is approaching. "I can take care of myself."
"I'm sure you believe that." His tone isn't condescending, just matter-of-fact. "Nevertheless, safety is an illusion we allow ourselves to maintain sanity. The truth is, we're all vulnerable—even those who think they've carved out independence."
I frown, trying to decipher his cryptic words. "Is that a threat, Mr. Blackwood?"
"A observation." He steps back, creating distance between us. "We'll speak again soon, Penelope. Perhaps somewhere less... performative."
Before I can respond, he walks away, disappearing into the crowd inside. I stand frozen, processing the encounter. His words weren't overtly threatening, but the underlying message was clear: he knows me, has been watching me, and believes our paths are destined to cross again.
My phone buzzes again—my ride has arrived. I gather my purse and make my way to the front of the house, deliberately avoiding eye contact with anyone who might delay my departure. The night air is cool against my flushed skin as I climb into the waiting car.
"Heading home?" the driver asks cheerfully.
"Yes, please." I give him my address, then lean back against the seat, suddenly exhausted. The tension of the evening—seeing my family, the cryptic conversations—has drained me.
Twenty minutes later, the driver pulls up to a convenience store. "Sorry, this is as close as I can get. There's road work blocking your street."
I glance out the window, recognizing the 24-hour store about a block from my apartment. "This is fine, thank you."
The store is harshly lit and empty except for a bored cashier scrolling through his phone. I wander the aisles, suddenly craving comfort food—something sweet and completely devoid of nutritional value. I select a pint of ice cream, a chocolate bar, and some chips, the kind of indulgence that would have horrified my calorie-counting mother.
"Long night?" the cashier asks as he rings up my purchases.
"You could say that." I pay and take the plastic bag, the weight of my emotional armor slipping now that I'm away from my family's orbit.
Outside, the street is quiet. Most of the shops are closed, their windows dark. I check my phone—just past eleven. The walk home is short, just a block to go. I've made this walk countless times, even later than this.
I'm halfway there when I hear footsteps behind me. I quicken my pace, pulse accelerating. The footsteps speed up too. I reach for my phone, ready to call for help, when a man steps out from an alley ahead of me.
"Hey there, pretty lady." His voice is rough, his stance predatory. "Out kinda late, aren't you?"
I stop, assessing my options. He's between me and my apartment, blocking my path home. Behind me, the footsteps are getting closer.
"I'm just heading home," I say firmly. "Please let me pass."
He smiles, revealing yellowed teeth. "Sure thing. Just hand over your purse and that fancy necklace first."
My hand goes to my throat, where my grandmother's pendant hangs on a silver chain—the one thing I took from my old life when I left. "No."
His expression hardens. "Don't be stupid, bitch. Give me your stuff, or I'll take it."
He lunges forward, grabbing for my purse. I swing the plastic bag containing my ice cream, hitting him in the face. He stumbles back, cursing, then comes at me again, this time with real anger. I scream, hoping someone will hear, but the street remains empty.
His hand closes around my throat, shoving me backward into the brick wall of a building. The pendant digs painfully into my skin as he squeezes. I claw at his hand, panic rising as my airway constricts.
"Should've just given it up," he growls, his breath hot against my face.
The crack of the gunshot is deafening in the quiet street. For a moment, nothing happens—then the pressure on my throat disappears as the man's eyes widen in shock. He crumples forward, and I barely manage to step aside as he falls to the ground.
Blood splatters across my face and dress, hot and metallic. I stare in horror at the growing pool beneath his head, at the neat hole where the bullet entered his skull.
"Fucking amateurs." The voice comes from behind me. "Doesn't know whose territory he's in."
