“You’re not going to need me to provide any emergency medical services, are you? I flunked for a reason.”
My hard glare is enough to get him moving. He leaves with the promise he’ll send Bernardo and Oscar my way while he pays a visit to Delphine’s apartment.
Whatever it is that’s going on, I’ll get to the bottom of it.
One way or another.
5. delphine
For the fifthtime in ten minutes, my phone pings with a new notification. Brenda won’t stop calling and texting. I’ve thrown her off by taking sick leave. It’s the first time in over two years, and even then, it was only a day due to a sprained wrist. I’d fallen during my morning jog and spent hours at Northam General. By the time I got out of the ER, the day was half over. I came into work the very next day sporting my cast, and have never taken off since. She and the others aren’t used to me not being there.
I’mnot used to me not being there.
My work is my life. For the better part of a decade, I’ve dedicated myself to my law career. I’ve skipped vacations and forgone family holidays just to spend time digging into case files and over-preparing for trials. I’m the daughter of renowned DA, Ernest Adams.
It’s who I am.
But as I lay in a ball on my sofa and the clock strikes noon, I can’t bring myself to do what I’m supposed to be doing.
Delphine Adams crushes criminals. She takes them down without mercy, locks them up, and throws away the key. She makes the streets safer, and she’s unapologetic about it. Her reputation hinges on cleaning up Northam.
What would the people think if they find out the truth? How can I protect the city when I can’t even protect myself?
I roll off the sofa and pad over to the bathroom like a zombie. Salt and Pepa jump to follow, curious why I’m home in the middle of the day. They’re used to my daily twelve-hour work schedule and the constant on-the-go energy I exude. Seeing me trudge around the apartment on lifeless autopilot isn’t like me.
I glance in the mirror at my dull reflection. My hair’s a tangled, uncombed bird’s nest. My face is swollen and bruised. I scrubbed my skin so hard in the shower, I’ve made myself even more tender and raw.
The minty menthol smell that burned my nostrils as he kicked my legs apart and forced himself inside. It was everywhere, circulating in the steam—threaded in my hair,seepingfrom my pores.
The filthy cigarette stench had latched itself onto me and refused to let go. A cruel, crude reminder of what happened last night.
I had to get it off of me. So I scrubbed a little harder and then when that didn’t work, I applied even more pressure. I didn’t stop until my skin prickled with pain, but I still kept going until the shower lost its heat and the water turned icy cold.
My hand travels to my neck, where another bruise has developed from my hard fall on the asphalt, and I wince touching the sensitive area. My rose necklace had been torn off during the scuffle and he’d taken it with him when he left.
Nana Rose’s necklace symbolized her love with Papa Huxley. He’d gifted it to her as a token of his affection. She wore it proudly for decades even in the years after he passed.
It’s been my security blanket since I was thirteen. Now it’s gone…
I tear my eyes away from my pitiful reflection and look down. Pepa's wrapping herself around my ankle, mewing softly. She gets needy when she doesn’t receive enough attention.
I lead both cats to the kitchen and crank open a can of cat food for them to feed on. It’s as I set it down there’s a resounding knock on the door.
My body stills, though my heart beats faster in my chest. Slowly, I build up enough nerve to pad over to the door and peek through the peephole. A delivery man stands on the other side, impatiently checking his phone, clutching a pizza box.
When another second goes by and I don’t answer, he bangs a particularly hard fist to the door. I jump back in alarm.
“Helloooo!” he calls. “I have an order for this address. Open up and sign the credit card receipt.”
I bite down a panicked sob threatening to escape. I didn’t order any food. Who is this man and why is he outside my door? Is he my attacker returning to finish me off? What if he’s sent goons after me? He knows the apartment I live in; he stole my ID...
I’m unable to move as the mysterious delivery guy knocks several more times before giving up altogether. His footsteps die down the hall. Gone as suddenly as he came.
Frazzled and terrified, I back away from the door and drop down on my sofa. I can’t even function. My brain’s not working properly. I’m usually so put-together, yet now I’m so... not. Where do you begin stitching yourself back together when you’ve been torn apart?
Even the most mundane, common sense things feel laborious and complex.
Anxiety clenches inside my chest, making even breathing difficult. I’m still in some kind of traumatized shock. So much so I’m unlike myself.