by Tarisa Marie
I follow Landon outside, not because I want to, but because I have no choice. First of all, I’m not staying in the house with Blayk, he’s psychotic. Not that Landon isn’t, but he does seem to be the least psychotic of the two. Secondly, if I’m outside, maybe I can make a run for it or get a neighbors attention.
As if he can hear my thoughts, Landon warns, “Don’t try to run or scream. If you do, I’ll make you come with me, and you won’t like that.”
I cringe. His tone is menacing. I have to do something. I’m not going to get into a car with another complete stranger. I’ve been there, and look how that turned out.
I follow Landon across the front lawn to another beautiful car parked in front of Blayk’s. He opens the passenger door for me. I hesitate understandably. I get into the passenger side and he shuts the door for me. Once Landon is about to take his seat on the driver’s side, I throw my door back open and spring out of the vehicle.
I sprint down the sidewalk towards the nearest house. It’s another huge mansion made of brick. I use the elaborate knocker on the door and begin screaming. I’m half surprised that Landon doesn’t catch up to me right away, I’m not the fastest runner in all truthfulness. Maybe he doesn’t want to make a scene and get caught. When no one answers immediately, I go at the knocker again and push the doorbell repeatedly.
A hand wraps around my wrist tightly and yanks me back. I gasp. Shit. I turn to face Landon, who still looks at me apologetically, or maybe it’s pity that I see in his expression, I’m not sure.
“Come with me,” he says in a pleading tone.
The front door of the mansion finally swings open, and I nearly burst into tears when Blayk stares back at me through the doorway. Did I somehow manage to run to the wrong house? I look to my left and see that no, this is the neighbor’s house. What the hell?!
“Keep a handle on your pet,” Blayk sneers, before slamming the door in our faces.
Landon grabs my wrist a little harsher and leads me back to his bright yellow car. He shoves me inside and locks the door while he walks around the car to his side. How did that just happen? I know I ran to the right house. So many questions invade my mind, giving me a headache and making me want to scream.
“That was a nice try. Running, I mean. It would’ve worked if all six of the homes in this neighborhood weren’t adjoined by tunnels. We own all six,” Landon tells me, as if trying to keep my sanity intact.
I look around the gated neighborhood. This isn’t a rich subdivision of sorts, but a gated home fixed to look like a subdivision. I clench my teeth. What in the hell are the chances? How do two twenty something year olds own so much property? How do they have so much money? Drugs. It has to be drugs. It must be a gang.
“Are you chilly?” He asks, eyeing me carefully. I realize that I’m hugging myself, but it’s not because I’m cold, but rather, because I’m scared, and it comforts me.
I shake my head.
“I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m trying to save your life. You have no idea what you just walked into,” he mutters under his breath and begins driving.
“It’s drugs, isn’t it?” I wonder out loud.
He shakes his head. “I’m afraid it’s far worse than that.”
What could be worse than drugs? He sees my look of confusion and answers, “You don’t want to know, trust me. Do you have anywhere that you can stay? Outside of Toronto, I mean. Preferably, outside of Ontario.”
I shake my head.
He nods and appears to be thinking.
“Just take me home, I promise I won’t say a word to anyone,” I beg. This really can’t be happening. I must have the worst luck in the world. Leave it to me to get wrapped up in a mess like this. It’s just my luck. My mother always told me growing up that I was unlucky and all the terrible stuff that happened to her after my birth, was all because of me, maybe she was right and I am bad luck.
Landon grips the steering wheel tighter. “I can’t. You can’t stay in Toronto. There are people here who will track you down and kill you.”
“How? They don’t even know me. They don’t have any connection to me at all!” I argue sternly.
He grimaces. “I can’t tell you all that you need to know to understand this situation. I can only warn you about what will happen. You will be hunted down and killed, Megan. That is a promise.”
The way he says these words is harsh. I don’t understand how what he says is possible. He’s sure that I will be killed that much is clear, but I don’t think he’s thought this through entirely. How will they find me? They don’t even have my last name.
“Take me back to the community centre, where I left my car parked. I won’t tell anyone about you or Blayk, and you don’t tell anyone about me. If people somehow magically come after me, then that’s my fault for not listening to you,” I suggest.
He sighs and turns the music completely off. I know he’s done arguing with me. He doesn’t seem to have the energy or will to continue arguing about this. It’s as if he doesn’t care enough to continue with me. “Okay. If that’s what you want, but I think you’re making a mistake. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I give him the address of the community centre gratefully. Maybe I will survive this day after all.
“You really should get rid of that ring, Megan. It’s dangerous to have in your possession,” Landon says after a moment of silence. I glance down at it in my palm. He’s not lying. This ring has already gotten me into more trouble than it’s worth. I roll down the window, and I am about to throw it out, when he grabs my wrist to stop me. “Don’t. If you throw it out, someone else could pick it up. Give it to me, and I’ll take care of it.”
I give the ring one last look before dropping it into his cup holder and rolling the window back up. “What’s so special about it anyway?”
He hesitates, as if trying to come up with an appropriate way to word his answer. “Rings like this one belong to a group of people who kill a certain group of others I guess you could say.” So I was right, it’s a gang related ring. Lovely. Good to know I’ve been wearing that since it fit my finger. How could my mom not have known my dad was part of a gang? Then again, my mom doesn’t know much. I can’t believe I’ve been wearing a murderer ring my whole life.
We pull into the community centre parking lot, and Landon unlocks the doors. “Good luck.” He says this like he knows the words will be useless.
I nod before exiting the car and sprinting to my own car, jumping in and locking the doors as quickly as I can. So much for city clean up. What a morning. I wait until his car is out of sight, before I exit the parking lot and head home. I guess Madison Street West will have to stay uncleaned. I hold back tears the whole way home and drive in all sorts of directions in case he’s following me.
Once I get home, I break down into tears. I close all of the blinds and lock all of the windows and doors. Call me paranoid, but I am worried about Landon’s warning. Remembering that I told Blayk I work with seniors, I rashly call and quit my job, not wanting to risk him finding me at work.
What if I do go to the cops? Can’t they protect me somehow? Can they put me in witness protection? I promised I wouldn’t, but I only promised because I thought it would save my life.
Witness protection? Really, Megan? No, they wouldn’t do that. You aren’t even scratched. You have no proof of even being taken.
Calm down, no one is coming after you, you’re over reacting. At least that’s what I tell myself. I’m probably just shaken up, right? I walk into the bathroom and open up the medicine cupboard. I grab some cold medicine that has drowsy listed as a side effect and pop three into my mouth. I lean down and take a sip of water from the tap to wash them down. I need to sleep ever so badly right now.
While I’m waiting for them to kick in, I decide to jump into the shower. I don’t realize how terrible of an idea this is, until I’m already inside. How am I supposed to hear someone break into my house with the water running? I throw shampoo into my h
air and lather it intensely, then I wash it out. When I close my eyes to keep soap from getting into them, my mind goes into panic mode, suddenly I’m opening my eyes expecting to see someone standing in my bathroom ready to kill me. Luckily, I manage to evade the soap. I’m left gasping for breath in the shower. I’m absolutely paranoid like a psycho, I know that.
I don’t have anyone to call. I don’t have anywhere else to go. I’m stuck here in this house, with my own thoughts. Every noise, no matter how little, makes me flinch for the rest of the evening. The pills do nothing to help me sleep, but eventually I do manage to get some shut eye. I sleep the rest of the day and all night.
When morning rolls around, I am startled awake by the sound of my neighbor’s dog barking. It takes me a moment to remember the events of the day before.
I turn on the morning news downstairs and fry some bacon for breakfast. When my doorbell rings around noon, I nearly shit myself. Who would be at my door right now? No one even knows where I live except my neighbors, and I don’t know any of them except Mrs. Lander who only comes over when she needs a dog sitter.
I instinctively grab a cleaver from my knife block and peer through the peephole of my front door. This wouldn’t be near as frightening if I didn’t live alone.
Surely if someone is going to attack me, they’ll do it in the middle of the night, right? Not at noon.
I see nobody outside of my front door, so I move to the window next to it and carefully look between the blinds. A man in a suit stands on the top step, out of the way of the peep hole. Is his position deliberate? I clench my teeth and take a deep breath. Do I open the door?
My hand rests on the lock for a moment in hesitation. Megan, you’re over reacting. You said it yourself, how would they ever find you? Chill the heck out. I slide it the lock and pull the door open, plastering on a smile. The man grins back, looks down at my hand clenching the knife tightly, and takes a short step back in surprise.
“Hello…” He moves his gaze up to mine. “I’m Crispen, your new neighbor next door. I just wanted to introduce myself,” he says wearily, pointing down the street with his thumb. Great, he thinks I’m nuts. My hand loosens its grip on the cleaver, and I let out a deep breath.
“I’m so sorry,” I apologize and extend my free hand. “I’m Megan. I’m a little paranoid at the moment. I spent all morning watching horror movies,” I lie. “It really gets to a girl.”
He chuckles and his expression lightens. “Not a problem.” He shakes my hand tightly. “I saw you come home yesterday morning. I was starting to think I was the only one under eighty in the neighborhood.”
“Well, yeah actually, we are probably the only ones under eighty around here to be honest. It seems most young people prefer the other side of the city for whatever reason,” I agree with him.
He shrugs. “Oh well, I guess. It’s not like I’m home much. I work a lot.”
“What do you do?” I ask, making conversation and taking in his suit.
“I’m a doctor,” he explains kindly and takes a small step closer now that he’s sure I won’t take a chunk out of him with my weapon.
I gape. A doctor? “How old are you?”
“Old enough to be a doctor,” he answers with a devilish smile. To me, he only looks to be about twenty-five, but I’m terrible at guessing age. He’s blonde with spiky hair and bright blue eyes the colour of sapphires. He’s neither tall nor short, standing at just under six feet tall. He’s cute I guess. Not faint-worthy, but definitely swoon worthy at least.
“Would you like to come in?” I ask him when an awkward silence sets in for more than a few seconds.
“Uh, I have a meeting I need to get to actually. Rain check?” he suggests, and hands me a bag from his hand. “This is for you.”
“Isn’t it usually me that would give you a gift? You’re the one that’s new to the neighborhood, not me,” I joke and take the bag.
He chuckles lightly. “I made too many. Have them.”
I thank him and close the door, as he descends the steps. I lock the door, then I open up the bag. Inside, there is a batch of chocolate chip cookies. I do love a man who can bake, and I love chocolate chip cookies even more.
I pop one into my mouth, then I put the rest on the kitchen counter for later. Crispen distracted me for a few minutes, but now I’m back to fretting about my future like an idiot.
I sit on the couch with my laptop and job search. You know, because I rashly quit my job yesterday. I apply for a few that look alright, but nothing really catches my eye. I love working with the elderly, and I can’t believe that I have given up my dream job. Why is this happening to me?
When supper rolls around, and I realize that I have no food in the house besides some left over bacon from breakfast, I decide that I’ll have to call in a pizza. I don’t feel like leaving the house while it’s pouring rain to get groceries.
While I wait for my pizza, I type some searches into my favorite search engine. First, I try ‘Blayk Landon Toronto’. Nothing even close comes up. Next, I search ‘gangs Toronto’. Again, nothing too useful. I read up on a few suspected gang-related incidents, but nothing jumps out at me. Lastly, I search ‘gangs with rings’. There are plenty of gangs with a ring as some sort of symbol, but I can’t find a ring that matches mine or even comes close. I don’t know what I was hoping for exactly. I’m just about to put away my laptop, when I think of one more thing to search. The name on the inside of my father’s ring. I’ve always thought that it was just the name of the brand or maker of the ring.
When I type in the name, multiple results show up. I wade through them until something catches my eye. It’s a police report in a paper from about twenty years ago. Unfortunately, the police report is not actually on the web, it is only referenced. To read the article, I have to contact the library. I click the link and a contact form pops up. I type in fake information, not wanting anyone to know that I’m looking into what looks to be a possible murder by the looks of the key words linked to the webpage. The only thing that I put into the online form that is actually mine is my email address, so they can get back to me.
I snoop around the site a little longer to find out that the library, which I’ve just emailed, is stationed in Alberta, Canada. In Calgary to be exact. Coincidence? I think not.
When my phone vibrates a few minutes later, signifying that I’ve received an email, I jump in surprise. That was sure a quick reply.
A picture of the exact article that I was inquiring about is clipped to the email along with a short message thanking me for my interest in the libraries records. I browse the wording quickly and carefully. In a nutshell, this Darius Ranchiller guy was brutally murdered in an alley in Calgary around the same time that I was born. I’m interrupted by a knock on my door and a ring of my doorbell in unison. I jump up. My pizza must be here.
I grab some cash from the table and rush over to the door, swinging it open. “Sorry, I had to grab some money,” I apologize and begin counting it out loud quickly.
“I’m…not…selling…anything…” a deep, humored voice bellows in laughter. My heart jumps, and I look up. The one time I don’t check the peephole! I’m relieved to see that it’s only Crispen, my new neighbor.
“Oh, Jesus, Crispen!” I cry reluctantly and place my palm over my heart in shock. “I thought you were the pizza guy!”
Another chuckle. “Nope, I mean if that’s what you want me to be then sure,” he says in a flirty, but joking tone.
I scowl at him.
“I’m just joking,” he reassures me with a thunderous laugh. He’s in a good mood. “You’re still paranoid because of that horror movie, aren’t you?” he muses, taking in my expression of surprise.
I nod automatically and motion for him to come in. “Would you like to come in? I have pizza on the way,” I offer.
He shrugs and his amusement fades a touch. “Yeah, sure.”
“Did you come to take your cookies back?” I ask, making conversation.
&
nbsp; He smirks. “No, you can keep them. They’re no good for these abs.” He lifts up his black t-shirt to reveal a finely sculpted torso. Damn him. If only I had enough ambition and will power to stop eating things like bacon and pizza, and get back into shape. It’s not that I‘m fat or even overweight, but I’m far from being in shape.
“I bet you can’t turn down the pizza when it gets here,” I joke, lighting up a bit and flashing him a genuine smile. No one can turn down pizza. Well, not unless they have some sort of super will power.
He licks his lips and half smiles. “No, you’re right. I won’t go that far. That’s just insanity.”
I giggle as he steps into my home and kicks off his shoes. I lock the door behind him. I immediately feel better now that I’m not alone. He sets his shoes neatly in the corner and glances to the table beside the door.
“Do you always carry around a big, badass knife?”
I glance to where he’s looking. I forgot to put the knife back in the kitchen earlier.
“I must’ve forgot to put it away,” I admit and grab it. I walk it into the kitchen and place it back into the knife block. “Sorry about that by the way. I didn’t mean to frighten you earlier when I answered the door with it.”
“Not a problem. It isn’t the first time I’ve been threatened with a knife unfortunately.”
I can tell by his tone that he’s not joking. I decide not to ask him to elaborate. I’m sure that if he was threatened with a knife before, it’s not likely a pleasant memory, and he probably doesn’t want to talk about it. I’d hate to ruin his giddy mood, because I need it right now.
“How did you like the cookies?” he wonders, changing the subject.
I toss a few pillows which have fallen off of my couch back where they belong and straighten the cushions. I wasn’t expecting guests. “They’re great. You’re a good baker.”