Elijah Vega.
I drop the glass of whiskey the moment I hear the doorbell. I was still contemplating wether to drink it or smash it against the wall anyway. This is what, the twentieth time I’ve tried to reach Paloma on her burner phone? Twenty f*****g calls and no answer. I’m one second away from going out to search for her myself. I don’t know what the hell she’s thinking right now.
I get up to check who it is. I told no one to come near my quarters and I’m pretty sure everyone got that message. When I open the door, it’s her.
This girl will be the death of me. I grab her by the wrist, pull her in and shut the door.
“You know better than to come here—” I start, but I stop when I see her eyes. She’s not even looking at me. She’s looking at my arm.
The stab wound. I forgot. Thank God
