On the other side of the door, at some point, Brio turned off his phone, maybe catching a little forbidden sleep like Chris had done the other nights.
A smile pulled at my lips as I heard the coffee pot beep as it finished brewing. And again when I heard Arturo's feet on the stairs, completely unaware of what was going to happen.
I should have felt guilt.
I guess normal people would have.
But I couldn't help but wonder how many men and women had started their days just like Arturo was starting his, completely oblivious that everything was about to change, losing their lives—or the lives of loved ones—because Arturo willed it.
He'd caused countless deaths.
He'd brought unfathomable amounts of terror into the hearts of others.
I felt no guilt.
Not even as I heard him take his cup upstairs, likely drinking a big gulp before getting into his shower.
In his locked bathroom.
Out of sight of anyone who might be hanging around with an epinephrine pen.
The excitement dimmed, the glee turned into something like disappointment, like defeat, when minutes passed, when nothing seemed to happen.
Tears sprang to my eyes, wondering what the hell my choice was now.
Trying to make a run for it?
What were my chances?
How could I start over with no money, no IDs?
Maybe I could go to the police.
Tell them my story.
Point fingers.
See if they would make me disappear.
My hands reached up, wiping the tears off my cheeks.
I don't know how long I sat there like that, biting my lip to keep the sobs in, face getting raw from the saltwater.
I was barely aware of the footsteps above, casual at first, then running, barely even registered the shouting.
But then there were frantic feet on the stairs, up, then down again.
The door flew open, bouncing against the wall.
And there was Brio.
His eyes were a little wild, but everything else about him calm, focused, as he made his way over toward me, producing a key, reaching for my ankle.
"You got to go, doll."
"Go? Go where? Where are you taking me?"
"I'm not takin' you anywhere. No one is. You're gonna get up, go up those stairs, and get fucking lost, you hear me? You run. And you don't look back. And you don't say shit about ever being here, you got that?"
"I, ah, yeah," I agreed, nodding as he fished for a handcuff key, freeing my wrists.
"Let's do it," he said, pulling me onto my feet, taking off toward the stairs, jogging up them.
Was I wrong?
Had it worked?
Had it just taken them this long to find him?
Hope swelled under my ribcage as I made my way into the kitchen.
"Out the back. And disappear, doll. Don't fuckin' look back, yeah?"
"I, yeah," I agreed, but he was already going through the front hall, jogging up the stairs.
I knew I had to run.
I knew I had to disappear.
But for some reason, I stood there for one extra second, looking around.
And then I saw it.
A wallet on the table.
I rushed at it, grabbing it, stuffing it down the bodice of my dress, and doing exactly what Brio said.
Getting out of there.
I didn't run right away.
I walked casually around the house, then down to the street.
I was nearly at the corner when I heard the sirens. Another couple seconds before the police cars came barreling down the street.
Turning, I saw them screech to a halt out front of Arturo's brownstone.
I took one second to watch, to see the ambulance pull up.
But I was pretty sure it was too late.
That was why they had to get rid of me.
Because the cops were coming.
And they couldn't have a prisoner in the basement.
Then I did it.
I ran.
And ran.
And ran.
I found myself in a crowded park, people glancing at me sideways for wearing a bright red evening dress and no shoes in the early morning, but I ignored them, let them think I had just done a walk of shame, reaching into my bodice to produce the wallet.
Arturo's.
There was his face on the driver's license, staring back at me, accusing me.
"Rot in hell, asshole," I grumbled at the picture as I reached into the fold to pull out a wad of cash.
Two thousand.
That would get me safe.
I could figure it out from there.
Don't ask me why I didn't just drop the wallet in the trashcan and make my escape from the city. I don't know the answer.
All I know is that I didn't do that.
I sat on a bench, flipping through the wallet.
And that was when I found it.
The letter.
And the picture.
I read it once, twice, three times, before the words started to sink in, to penetrate, to make sense.
Then I reached for the picture again, not wanting to believe it, but there was no denying it.
I sat there for a long time, long enough that my ass started to hurt, staring down at what I just found, trying to decide what it meant, if anything.