Go back to my apartment
“Help is coming,” I tell her and give her hand one last squeeze.
If the professionals think the area is too dangerous, I have to trust them. They’ve had the training. I’m just a chick trying to help.
I hurry down the street, past the onlookers in the window—that strange hunched man who looks like a Tim Burton character come to life—all boney angles and gothic attire.
Then his eyes widen and his gaze slides over me toward the alley from which I came.
This sends chills through my bones. I don’t know why, but I bolt. The way one bolts up the basement stairs, away from the darkness as fast as you can because that breath on the back of your neck whispers danger danger danger.
I hustle up the stairs and burst into the apartment. Sushi sprints from the living room, o
