Scott pushed through the door of the small apartment he’d rented three weeks ago in a quiet corner of Little Havana. The place smelled of fresh paint and old cigarette smoke. One bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchenette barely big enough for a microwave. He’d chosen it because it was cheap, anonymous, and far enough from Micah’s life that he could pretend he wasn’t running from it.
He locked the door behind him, leaned against it for a moment, then walked straight to the bathroom. The mirror above the sink was cheap, slightly warped, but it showed him everything he didn’t want to see.
His reflection stared back, his eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched, hair wet from the rain. He looked like a man who had just held a gun to his sister’s head.
He slapped himself once (hard) across the left cheek. Th
