“This is a really bad night for you to call in sick, Alex. I have police crawling all over here, treating me like a fucking terrorist.”

“Just stay calm, Aasif. Don’t give them a reason to Rodney King you.”

“Fucking racist pigs,” he mutters under his breath.

“Aasif, I’ll call you tomorrow to tell you if I’m better.”

“Okay, see you tomorrow.”

He hangs up and I immediately grab a spoon out of the drawer on the left. Then I turn up the flame on the stove. I pull the sleeve of my hoodie over my right hand, using it like a pot holder to protect my skin as I hold the spoon directly on the flame. When the spoon begins to glow, I pull it off the flame and immediately press it against the knife wound.

I try to hold it in, but a wretched moan escapes my lips. Oh, God. Please let the wound be sealed.

I pull the spoon away, taking some of my skin with it, and the blood is still trickling. Not gushing. But trickling is still too much.

A few tears roll down my face as I realize I have to get another spoon and do it again.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

At the sound of the knocking on my door, my hand flies up to turn off the stove light. I pull my shirt and hoodie down over the knife wound and slip my custom Ontario 498 army knife out of its holster at the back of my waist. Then I wait.

The sensation of the blood trickling down my skin is now more distracting than the pain in the wound or the burn. I’m used to pain.

Forty seconds. Forty-one. Forty-two. Forty-three.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Chapter Two

I stare at the door for a moment, then I force myself to move. My legs feel a little weak as I move toward the door. It’s the loss of blood. If this is one of those guys coming to finish me off, I’m dead. I can’t fight them off like this.

“What do you want?” I shout from where I stand off to the side of the door.

“Ma’am. This is Detective Rousseau, LAPD.”

“I’m sleeping.”

“Ma’am, I need to talk to you about a possible murder you saw on Hope Street. Can you please open up?”

A fucking detective. And he got here pretty fast if he just responded to the scene at the gas station. Aasif must have given him my address.

Unless he’s not a detective at all.

“I didn’t see anything.”

“That’s not what your boss said. We think you might be in danger. Please open up.”

I almost laugh out loud at that one. They think I might be in danger, which is why they sent just one detective to protect me. This guy is a bad liar.

“Come back tomorrow.” When I’ll be long gone.

“Ma’am, this is quite urgent. If you don’t open up, I’ll be forced to secure a warrant to search your home. I don’t want to do that. I know you didn’t have anything to do with this crime or the other crime scene on Hope and 7th.”

What the fuck? Now he’s threatening to pinch me?

I glance at the window on the other side of the living room, covered in thick black-out curtains. I can’t jump from three stories up. Maybe I can climb down the side of the building with my bare hands if there are no other cops or detectives out there. But I’m already weak from the loss of blood. If I lose my grip….

“My electricity got cut off. It’s very dark in here.”

“That’s okay. I have a flashlight.”

Of course you do.

“Just a minute.”

I grit my teeth against the pain as I walk into the tiny utility closet where the stackable washer and dryer, a tankless water heater, and the electrical panel are kept. I flip the main switch on the electrical panel, cutting off all electricity to the entire apartment.

I shut the door to the utility closet and head to the door. Looking through the peephole, I’m not surprised to see a person in a black hoodie and dark jeans. His face is cloaked in shadow as he stares at the doorknob, waiting for me to answer.

Detective Rousseau. I didn’t know detectives were in the business of killing people and witnesses these days.

I plant my feet firmly as I stand to the side of the door. Then I tighten my grip around the handle of my knife and tuck it behind my back. I’ll pull this door open and the moment this guy makes a wrong move, he’s dead.

I don’t like using my knife in a fight. My father trained me in Krav Maga, so I know that any weapon I carry can be used against my opponent and me.

Disarm. Disable. Disengage. Those are the three steps my father taught me.

First, you disarm your opponent. Then, you disable them. That could mean anything from stunning them, knocking them out, or killing them. Finally, you disengage. You get the fuck out of there.

I turn the doorknob slowly, then I quickly swing the door inward while maintaining my cover behind the wall. The white beam of the flashlight pierces through the darkness, mostly diffused except for the small circle of light on the black armchair against the wall.

“Turn off the flashlight.”

“Pardon me?”

He attempts to step inside and I jut my foot out to stop him. “Detective?”

There’s a long pause. He knows I know he’s full of shit.

A soft click and the beam of light recedes into the dimly lit corridor. “Better?”

His voice sounds different with the door open. There’s a slight accent, but I can’t tell if it’s European or Canadian French. It doesn’t matter. He’s in my territory now. If he survives, he won’t have a voice left to speak.

“Much better. Come in, Detective.”

I keep my head bowed low so he can’t see my face, but he moves slowly. He’s trying not to provoke me. We’ll see how long that lasts.

“I’m going to come in very slowly,” he assures me when his right foot is completely inside. “No need to be alarmed.”

I’ll decide when it’s time to be alarmed.

His body moves forward slowly and I finally glimpse the top half of him. He’s holding both his hands up on either side of his face. One hand still clutching his flashlight; a very deadly weapon in trained hands. But his hood is still pulled up. And from this side angle, with his hands up, I still can’t see his face.

Maybe that’s a good thing.

I step to the right, farther away from the doorway. “Close the door,” I order him.

He takes another step forward so that now I can only see his back. Then he uses his foot to push the door closed. Total darkness.

“Keep your hands in the air and tell me who you really are.”

The silence that follows my command is complete. He knows I’ll be able to hear every move he makes in here. And he’s right.

Since I was pulled out of public school at the age of six, my parents kept me locked away like a princess in a tower. Afraid that others would judge me the way the children and school staff had. They wanted to protect me. Or so they claimed.

My father trained me in the basement of our craftsman style 1920s house in L.A. Houses like that are rare in Southern California. They’re worth a lot of money now. And my parents have sure mortgaged the shit out of that house. Hence, the reason I no longer live with them. They wanted me to start working for my dad’s agency without getting paid. Of course, I’d still have to live in their dingy basement. Then there’s also the whole thing with my mom being crazy and manipulative.

I hold my breath as I stare at Detective Rousseau’s silhouette through the darkness. I don’t think he’s breathing. I wait another moment, thinking that if he doesn’t speak or move soon I’m going to stab him in the jugular. Then I hear a soft intake of breath.

“I just need to know what you saw, so I can record your statement in my report.”

He’s still going to pretend to be a detective. Fine. I can play that game.

“I didn’t see anything. So if that’s the only reason you’re here, I suggest you leave.”