The Scorpion Nest: A Short Story

by Guy Harrison

  ###

  Shrouded in the night’s darkest blackness, careful not to breathe too loudly, Joel traipsed up the steps. This house was beautiful but not as luxurious as the one he and Sonnet had occupied for only a few fleeting days. He wondered what a single man would do with all this space but found it perfect for his purposes. He hoped his exit would be as uneventful as the stealth of his entrance.

  At the landing, Joel saw two bedroom doors as well as an open bathroom. He wandered down the hallway, toward the master bedroom, using soft steps. He stopped at the master suite door, twisted its knob and pushed the door open.

  Unable to see, save for the faint moonlight shining through the blinds, Joel left the door open behind him as he followed the sound of snoring. He walked along the side of the bed and quietly flipped on the lamp on the nightstand. He had found what he was looking for.

  Joel did a double take, however. Next to the lamp was an unexpected photo situated in an otherwise unremarkable frame. In the picture, Sonnet smiled widely while in Scott’s arms.

  “Oh my God,” Scott looked up from his bed. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Joel folded his arms and scowled at Scott’s squinting eyes as he turned onto his back.

  “I can explain.”

  “Don’t.”

  “I’ll give you anything you want. What do you want?”

  “Revenge.”

  Scott’s eyes tilted down to Joel’s hands. No weapons. “Are you gonna kill me?”

  “No.”

  “Look, I can get you a new house, no scorpions, nothing.”

  “That won’t bring her back.”

  “Well, no offense, dude, but it was her fault. She had it coming.”

  Joel held up a finger to hush Scott. “No.”

  “She absolutely had to have that house. Didn’t care what the pest inspector said.”

  “You don’t have to lie. I know. There was no pest inspector.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We were married. You didn’t think I might be told about her offshore bank account?”

  “So I gave her part of my commission. I was just sweetening the deal.”

  “You didn’t sweeten the deal. You bought her from me.” Joel held his hand to his forehead as the anger rose in his throat. Until now, he didn’t know Sonnet’s secret sum of over seventy-thousand dollars was somehow related to Scott. It was only a guess. “God, it all makes sense now. The offshore account, the calls on her phone to a divorce lawyer …”

  Scott started to laugh. “You’re good. You should be a detective.”

  Joel turned the photo down. “I’m already doing my life’s work.”

  Scott watched as Joel walked back to the door. “That was your idea of revenge?”

  “I said I wouldn’t kill you.” Joel snapped his fingers.

  “What are you doing?” Scott asked. Suddenly, he heard the hissing, the chirping. An army of scorpions climbed onto his bed. “Oh, God,” Scott howled into the night until his predators climbed into his mouth.

  Joel watched, expressionless, as the swarm engulfed Scott and never relented.

  —The End—

  If you enjoyed this story, please leave a review with your online retailer. Independent authors rely heavily on customer reviews, so please spread the word!

  About the Author:

  Guy Harrison is a Phoenix area-based author raised in Philadelphia. Once an aspiring sportscaster, Harrison has worked in public relations in higher education for the past six years. Agents of Change, his debut novel, was published in February, 2012. He currently lives in Chandler, Arizona with his wife Lindsay and their two cats.

  Connect with Me Online:

  At www.GuyMHarrison.com

  On Twitter: @guymharrison

  On Facebook: Guy Harrison, Author

  Also on Goodreads.com

  Also Available:

  Agents of Change (ebook and Paperback)

  Coming Late 2012:

  Agents of Chaos (ebook and Paperback)

  Also Available

  Agents of Change

  Karma Has a New Face…

  "...an exciting thriller with plenty of surprises...packed with twists, disasters and suspense." — Emma Hunneyball, In Potentia

  "…a great tale of intrigue. I didn’t know who to trust, and that kept it suspenseful in all the best ways." — Lia London, author of The Circle of Law: The Ancients of Drandsil Book One

  "…Harrison's writing was non-stop action, and kept me turning pages from beginning to end." — A.B. Riddle, Underground Book Reviews

  An amiable corporate manager by day and a matchmaker whenever he can get around to it, Calvin Newsome’s new dream job falls into his lap when he’s recruited by a secret worldwide organization whose agents use uncanny abilities to empower and influence everyday downtrodden individuals. Disaster strikes, however, when an elaborate scheme leaves Calvin as a prime murder suspect…and his new employer is presumably to blame.

  With the authorities on his heels and his life left in ruin, Calvin uses his new powers to blend in until a journey for freedom becomes a quest for peace. As the agency’s rival organization threatens the security of all of earth’s inhabitants, he teams up with unlikely allies and battles surprising enemies hellbent on unleashing their power in a twisted version of justice, innocent lives be damned.

  Available in Ebook and Paperback

  Agents of Change Sample

  After he tucks me into the cruiser, the cop who collared me paces outside the car and uses the walkie affixed to his chest to communicate with whomever he’s communicating with. I can’t hear all of what is being said but there’s quite a bit of mention about the ID. After waiting what seems like an eternity to be driven somewhere, anywhere, I’m taken to headquarters and put in jail. They tell me they’re holding me for trespassing, but this seems to have gone on far too long for that. Besides, if this is a simple trespassing case, then why so much focus on the ID?

  I can’t give Jimenez much of an update, either; they confiscate my earpiece and cell phone as soon as I arrive at the police station. Thus, I never get to tell her that I am being held at the fifteenth police district headquarters, not more than fifteen minutes away from Lincoln High.

  After waiting for what seemed like another eternity, I am now sitting alone in an interrogation room. A single fluorescent light hangs over the table at which I’m sitting. This light is far less maddening than the one at the Agency of Influence but I would trade this well-behaved bulb for a chance at getting out of here.

  A man in a navy blue suit, badge on his belt, open dossier in his hands, enters the room and closes the door behind him.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he says, “had to get a judge to give us a search warrant, set bail, and all that other bullshit…but I’m sure you already knew that.”

  “Bail?”

  “You know what I don’t understand? After all this time, why on earth would you still be wearing her ID?”

  “After all of what time? What do you think I did?”

  “You also called out sick at work yesterday and suddenly submitted your resignation this morning. Sounds an awful lot like a guy who had designs on either turning himself in or running away.”

  I shrug. “I had something else lined up.”

  “You know, your coworkers were shocked. Vouched for you. But I’m having a hard time believing you’re an innocent man. Maybe you can help me.” The detective tosses the Jenny Cooper ID on the table. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Someone gave it to me.”

  The cop scoffs and shoots me a smirk. He sits down across from me, laying one leg on top of the other. “C’mon,” he says with a smile, “admit it. Admit what you did.”

  “I—I’m sorry…I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I’m beginning to wish I had taken them up on their offer to talk to a lawyer. Whatever it is this guy wants me to admit, it sounds a lot more serious than trespassing on school grou
nds with a phony ID. The detective drops the folder on the table and folds his arms across his chest

  “Look,” he says, “you’re wasting your time. Just admit it.”

  “I don’t know wh—”

  “Right, ’cuz people run from the cops for shits and giggles. Look at the ID. You recognize her, don’t you?”

  I look at the card and shrug.

  “Doesn’t ring a bell?”

  I shake my head.

  “Read me her name, maybe that’ll help you remember.”

  “I don’t know who she is.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not. I—”

  “Read the girl’s name. I’m not asking.”

  I look the man in the eye and gulp before opening my mouth. “Jenny Cooper.”

  “That’s right,” he says, nodding his head as he bites his lower lip. “Jenny Cooper. You remember what happened to her, don’t you?”

  I shake my head.

  “Found dead in Pennypack Creek three years ago. Blunt-force trauma to the head, cracked orbital bone, broken leg. Scuffmarks on her bike that made it look like an accident. Tell me; is that the price for saying no these days?”

  “No!” I say. “You think I killed her?”

  He shrugs. “The evidence doesn’t lie.”

  I can feel my face radiating as my arteries and veins pound the walls of my neck. I damn near faint as I sit back in my chair, letting the detective’s words reverberate in my mind. I’ve been set up…by way of human error, I think. I don’t believe an organization as benevolent as the Agency of Influence would go to such elaborate lengths to see to it that Jenny Cooper’s death—which, by all accounts, appeared to have been a cold case—was pinned on me.

  The detective clears his throat. “I’ll give you credit…the marks on the bike, the absence of DNA…you covered your tracks.”

  “But it’s just an ID,” I say, my eyes fixed on the card instead of the man.

  “Unless you have one helluva story, it’s all we need.” He leans forward and places his interlocked hands on the table. “C’mon. Just admit it.”

  He’s right. There’s no way of convincing anyone that I was given that ID by accident without being laughed out of town and into prison. The only other plausible explanations would either include me having a weird mentor-like friendship with Jenny or with a friend of hers. Either way, it still makes me look suspicious. I can’t say anything else, lest I risk further incriminating myself.

  “Nothing?” asks the interrogator, palms turned up, anger growing in his eyes.

  My lips start to quiver and my hands start to quake. I’m losing control of my body. I don’t feel like I’m going to cry. Instead, I feel paralyzed. I can’t speak because I can’t breathe. I can’t hear what the detective’s saying because my mind is racing, speaking over him. And I can’t move a limb because I don’t want to appear even guiltier. Detectives study body language, don’t they?

  Suddenly, the detective grunts and slaps his hand on the table. He stands up and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him. With the weight of a murder charge firmly placed upon my shoulders, my mind starts racing for a solution. I have no way to reach Jimenez or Ronni, not that the latter could do anything about this. My only option is to escape.

  I look at the walls and then the ceiling. As I look at each corner of the room, I notice a camera, located on my right, above the door. The first plan that pops into my mind is a risky one but if it’s going to work, I have to employ it now.

  Looking straight ahead, I set my mind on the camera and cut its cable. Next, I tear the camera off the wall and watch it fall to the floor before it breaks into several pieces.

  Swoosh!

  Now sitting at the table, hands cuffed in front of him, is Detective Lawrence, a young man I noticed leaving the station when I was being booked. He has closely-cropped brown hair, brown eyes and a tan complexion.

  The interrogator bursts back into the room, his eyes wide open.

  “Lawrence!” he says.

  “I—I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought I could get him to crack.”

  Veins protrude out of his neck. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?”

  “First, stop yelling. Secondly, you’re wasting time. You still might catch him if you hurry.”

  The interrogator barks another f-bomb and turns around in a huff, his jacket flailing in the air like a cape. With the door left open, I stand up and leave the interrogation room. I walk down a short hallway lined with vanilla-colored concrete walls. Around the corner, I hear a steady commotion. Sounds like a large group of people. As I get closer to the corner, the commotion grows louder. I reach the end of the hall and round the corner on my left. The precinct’s front lobby is a circus.

  In addition to the dope pushers and prostitutes waiting in line to be booked, there are several more people sitting in the station’s lobby and many more milling about outside. Through the crowd in the lobby, the decibel level inside the station rises with each opening of the precinct’s double doors. I look through the horde of people and get a clearer picture of what exactly awaits outside; the media.

  They’re ravenous, the media. And they’re all waiting to catch a glimpse of me. That gives me an odd sense of comfort in this otherwise ghastly situation. Because I know I’m innocent as charged, I can judge the media throng barricading the police station’s front steps as ugly. To their knowledge, the murderer of a teenage girl has been captured and they’re frothing at the mouth, almost giddy to be covering this story. I know that the if it bleeds, it leads mentality is the mantra that most media outlets live by these days but, given my unique position, I can now see it for all its absurdity.

  “He escaped!” exclaims a man.

  A collective gasp fills the lobby. With the subtlety of a tidal wave, word of my escape filters through the lobby and out to the media in front of the building. I find the nearest officer at the front desk and approach him in a harried state.

  “He got me,” I say, holding up my cuffed hands. “You got a key to take these off?”

  “Detective Lawrence? I thought you went home.”

  “I did…but I couldn’t stand being at home with that shithead here.”

  The cop chuckles before sifting through a collection of keys on a ring so large, you could fit a Nerf ball through it. “I hear you on that one,” He finds the key. “How’d he get ya?”

  “I dunno,” I say, “one minute I was talking to him, the next minute he had me in cuffs.”

  “Wow.”

  “Crazy, right?”

  The cop undoes my cuffs. With my wrists free, I resist the urge to rub them. I look behind the counter for my cell phone and wallet when I jump at the sound of a loud voice.

  “Lawrence!” the detective yells. I hear the man but don’t acknowledge him. “Lawrence!” He grabs me from behind and turns me around, speaking with clenched teeth. “You’re coming with me.”

  “I am?”

  “C’mon.”

  I follow him through the crowded lobby. “Where we going, Detective, um, Jones?”

  “First off, the name’s Suter,” he says. “Secondly, we’re going to his house. See if he pops up.”

  “Do we have a warrant?” I ask.

  “What do you mean, do we have a warrant? You were there when we searched his place. You better hope his ass turns up.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  Suter opens the station’s front door, exposing us to the collection of media-types guarding the stairwell. As soon as we reach the edge of the staircase’s landing, microphones, tape recorders and all manner of other electronic devices are shoved in our faces. Suter acts as a lead blocker, opening up the smallest of spaces for us to squeeze through.

  The media, determined to get the right quote, asks us question upon question, speaking over one another. Suter and I reach the pavement and shove our way to a black Ford Taurus parallel parked on the street. Suter utilizes the car’s remote and motions for me to
get in. I open the door and climb in, surprised to see no police equipment inside, save for a walkie and dispatch receiver. I suppose homicide detectives use their own vehicles when on the case.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Suter asks, slamming the driver’s door.

  “I don’t know, I—”

  “If he doesn’t turn up,” Suter says, “I swear to God, I’m gonna kick your ass.” He turns the ignition and drives off, parting the sea of media.

  “Relax, man. We’ll find him.”

  “Relax!? That’s a pretty big collar you let get away.”

  “You think he’s that big a collar?” The Taurus fishtails as Suter takes a sharp right turn. I grab a handle to steady myself.

  “Hell, yeah. You saw all the reporters.”

  “Yeah, why so many?”

  “Have you seen the girl’s picture?”

  “No.”

  Suter’s knuckles turn white as he grips the steering wheel. His head turns about like an oscillating fan as he scans our surroundings for the big collar.

  “She was pretty. A girl like that gets murdered…that’s just asking for attention.”

  “Out of curiosity,” I say, “did they find anything at his place?”

  “No. The guy’s place was clean. We’ll see if anything comes up when we scan his computer, though.”

  Great. There goes my stash of porn.

  “We impounded his car, too. Can you believe the guy made a six-figure salary and drove a Kia?”

  I catch myself, careful to keep my eyes from popping out of their sockets and my breath from escaping loudly out of my mouth. I’ve most likely seen my car for the last time. Hopefully the same won’t hold true for the light of day.

  In a normal world, my murder trial would not be as much of a slam dunk as Detective Suter thinks it is. Any team of defense attorneys I assemble would be able to find me a more than adequate alibi. Between my e-calendar at Maxwell and my phone records, I’m sure my legal team could prove that I was nowhere near Pennypack Park at that time. But my world isn’t normal anymore. The truth is, I was given Jenny’s ID and I have no one specific, non-agent to blame for giving it to me.

  As we get off the interstate, approaching Northern Liberties, I begin to appreciate the lift from Suter. This is probably the best thing that could have happened after my escape from the interrogation room. I don’t have any money for a cab and taking the bus all the way to FDR Park would have proved risky; who knows how many Agents of Justice utilize public transportation.

  Entering my townhouse will be easy—I use keyless entry, as you recall—but breaking away from Suter will be the hard part. If I can somehow manage to do that, I’ll be able to gather a few things—some clothes, money, and my matchmaking phone. That is, of course, unless the cops confiscated those items, too.

  “What are we doing?” I ask as we pull up in front of my townhouse.

  “We’re staking out.”

  “For how long?”

  “As long as it takes. We’ll have cops all over the city looking for this guy.”

  “Except here.”

  “Right. He might be dumb enough to come back here. If the bastard shows up, I wanna be the one to bag him.”

  “Not if I cuff him first,” I say with a grin.

  Suddenly, Suter turns and grabs me by the lapels, bringing my face only inches away from his. “This is my fucking case,” he says, his breath warming my face. “You’re just here for backup.” He lets me go, the tension in his face subsiding as he pulls away before he finally bursts into laughter. “I’m just kiddin’ ya, pal.”

  “That was hilarious. You really had me goin’.”

  “Yeah I did,” he says before containing himself. Detective Suter is either bipolar or has a sick sense of humor. I’d rather have Jimenez as my partner.

  I turn my attention back to my window to look at my townhouse, its yellow vinyl siding glistening in the moonlight. My building is a new build, constructed as part of a gentrification process that would later accommodate the influx of yuppie hipsters that have inundated the neighborhood. Knowing that my heart wasn’t in my work at Maxwell, I decided to rent a place instead of buying.

  “Man, I’m thirsty,” Suter says, tugging at his necktie. He engages the car’s power locks and opens both our windows. I look at the convenience store across the street, kitty corner from my townhouse.

  “Go grab a drink,” I say, nodding toward the store. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

  “Yeah, right,” he says, taking a cigarette out of his shirt pocket. “You already let him go once. You go.”

  “I don’t have no cash,” I say, really delving into my ruse as I feel my pockets. “I left my wallet back at the station.”

  Suter opens his door. “Fine. I’ll be right back.” He climbs out of the car and closes the door.

  My heart begins to race.

  “Don’t be no fuckin’ hero,” he says, pointing at me with the unlit cigarette between his index and middle fingers. “You see him, you call me.”

  “Got it.”

  I watch Detective Suter walk away, waiting for him to enter the store. I’m sure he’ll be watching me like a hawk since he’s so apparently hellbent on making a name for himself. I crack my knuckles in anticipation. I want my fingers loose for when I speed dial my keyless entry code.

  When Suter crosses the street and enters the store, I already have my hand on the door’s handle. As soon as he enters the store, he turns back once more to make sure that I’m still in position and that the fugitive has not returned to his roost. He then makes a beeline for the refrigerated section of the store. The store’s entire selection of beverages faces the entrance, so Suter has his back turned to me. This is my chance.

  Before he can choose between Pepsi and Coke, I open the door but stop. A homeless woman with a shopping cart full of cans strolls right in front of the car. I close the door.

  Dammit. I could go for it now but if this lady sticks around, she could tell Suter that I’ve gone inside. I want to give him the impression that I’ve left the scene completely. After taking another peek at Suter, I look at the woman. She doesn’t stop at the corner. She continues walking down the street, out of sight. I might have missed my chance, though. Suter has reached the checkout counter, Coke in hand, his Taurus in full view. Before reaching for his wallet, he turns around to study the junk food behind him.

  Fuck it.

  I thrust the door open—using my hands, this time—as I race to my townhome’s front door. Without looking back, without closing the car door, I type the four digit code. The lock scolds me with an angry tone. I must’ve fat fingered the code. Or maybe it was changed. Shit. I take a peek back. Suter still has his back turned. With the fury of someone who’s just seconds away from peeing himself, I try my code one more time. This time, the lock greets me with a friendly tone. I open the door just enough for me to slip in, and close it shut.

  Relief.

  I finally breathe. My heart pounds against my chest, my legs shake in my slacks.

  “Lawrence!” I hear Suter yell outside.

  Through my peep hole, I watch as the detective runs across the street and slams his car’s door closed.

  “Lawrence!” He uses the Lord’s name in vain as he pulls his gun off his hip. He then looks both ways before running down the street, away from my townhouse.

  Out of habit, I turn around and reach for the light switch before catching myself. Instead, now that my eyes have adjusted, I climb the stairs using the faint combination of moonlight and lamppost to lead the way. I take each step slowly, careful not to trip in the dark stairwell.

  My place is one of those where the entrance sits at ground level but everything else is upstairs. The main inhabitable space hangs over covered parking. I never did get to park in my designated spot last night; some asshole decided he was entitled.

  When I reach the top of the first flight of stairs, I step away from the stairwell and turn onto the first floor. It comes a
s no surprise to me that my place has been ransacked. I’m not a neat freak but I try my best to keep the place tidy. So, when I see a stream of clothes spread across the cherrywood flooring into my laundry room, I know that’s not my work. I peek to my right, into the laundry room, and see that it’s been pillaged.

  Thank goodness my place is a rental. I won’t have to worry about keeping up with a mortgage when I go into hiding. My landlady will be inconvenienced but she’ll have my full permission to ditch all the stuff I leave behind.

  I walk past the kitchen and notice that they left that relatively unscathed, save for a single, wide open cabinet. I take a few steps into the living room. I can tell they took liberties with my furniture, but nothing outlandish. I look over at my desk, located next to the kitchen, and see the space where my computer used to be. The monitor is still there, but the tower, which was underneath the desk, is gone. I walk over to the desk and open its drawer, hoping to find my matchmaking phone. Instead, I find nothing, save for my matchmaking phone’s charger.

  I grab the charger and close the drawer before heading back toward the stairwell. I’d love to disconnect my PlayStation 3 and take it with me but I just don’t have time for that. I need to pack the essentials, call Ronni, and lay low until Elena finds me. Still careful to walk softly, I inch closer to the stairwell, reaching out my hands so as not to knock anything over. The walls in this building are thick but I don’t want to chance anyone hearing me next door.

  When I get to the stairwell, I watch a police cruiser come to a stop across the street. I crouch down on the top step of the first flight of stairs. With my back against the wall, I peek around corner and through the window. I don’t want to run across the window and risk drawing attention to myself.

  Two cops exit the car and stay on that side of the street. They look pretty jovial, perhaps just making the rounds. After sharing a hearty laugh the two cops round the corner across from my townhome, across from the convenience store, and continue walking out of view. I traipse up the stairs, still careful to take quiet, yet efficient steps.

  On the second floor, the moon brightens my master suite through two skylights that dot the ceiling. This is where the police did the most damage. Clothes, shoes, ball caps, coats and jackets are strewn all across the floor and on my bed. Thankfully, the safe in my closet is still intact. I step over some of my clothes on the floor as I make my way to safe. As I starting entering the code to my safe, I hear a noise from within the closet.

  Buzz-buzz-buzz.

  Buzz-buzz-buzz.

  I survey the few jackets that are still hanging in my closet. I feel my leather jacket.

  Buzz-buzz-buzz.

  Then I feel a sports coat. I can feel something hard in one of its pockets.

  Perfect. My matchmaking cell phone—a small BlackBerry. Because I haven’t yet attached my name to my matchmaking practice, the police most likely won’t know to trace this number, unless they track my domain name back to me. Unfortunately, I haven’t taken the time to memorize Jimenez’s number. At least I remember Ronni’s.

  I look at the BlackBerry and see that I just missed a call from Ronni. I have four missed calls in total—three of them from Ronni—and a voicemail. Other than my clients, Ronni’s the only person who has this number. I press the key to play the message.

  “Hi,” says a nervous male voice, “my name’s Mark. I’m, uh, calling to schedule an appointment…with your company. I’m, uh, not sure how this works but I’m really interested in being matched. Please give me a call back when you can. Thanks.”

  Just before hanging up, Mark remembers to leave his number. Poor kid. Probably a loner. Too bad most of my clients are probably old enough to at least be his parents. Either this kid’s desperate or the cops have found my number and have attempted to set a trap. I check the time of the message: 10:11 this morning. I had just left with Jimenez.

  I go to the text messaging screen and type a message for Ronni: Have you spoken to the cops? I don’t want to send her messages if the police are hovering in her apartment. If they are, my stay here won’t be long.

  No. Where r you??? she asks.

  I sit on my cluttered bed and type another message. I can’t tell u. The less u know, the better.

  R u okay? I’m so scared.

  I’m fine. I’ll call you in 30 mins, ok?

  K…I’m sorry. She adds a sad face to her text. Even in SMS messaging, Ronni’s emo.

  I text a reply. Sorry for what? This isn’t your fault. LOL. I love Ronni, but sometimes her friendliness is laughable. I hold my phone and look through my bedroom windows, both of which overlook a back alley. With no response from Ronni, I type another message. I probably hurt her feelings by laughing at her sympathetic text. I didn’t do it.

  I know, she replies, this time with a smiley face. Life, death, taxes, and a smile from Ronni: those are my four guarantees in this jacked-up life. Before doing anything else, I activate my townhome’s alarm system, punching in another code in the keypad near my bedroom door. If the cops come barging in, I’ll have plenty of notice.

  I turn around and look at my clothes—both clean and dirty—spread out across my bedroom. I grab a duffle bag out of my closet and sigh. This could take a while.

  ###

  With the sun shining through the skylights, I roll over in my bed and look at my alarm clock. Eight o’clock. I look over to my closet and see my duffle bag, unzipped, stuffed with a few clothes that were given the short shrift. Next to me on the bed are the couple hundreds of dollars I pulled out of my safe.

  I grab my cell phone and see four more missed calls from Ronni and a text: “U 4got about me.” Indeed I did. I must have fallen asleep while packing, as evidenced by the money on my bed and the fact that I’m sleeping in yesterday’s clothes. When I roll onto my back and look up into the skylights, my phone rings. Ronni.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh my God, Calvin, where are you?”

  “I’m at h—I’m in Washington.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I…” This isn’t fair. I just woke up.

  “Tell me where you are,” she says.

  “I can’t.”

  “Please. There’s something I need to tell you.”

  “You wanna see me now? Are you outta your mi—” I hear a loud crash downstairs, followed by the ear-splitting beeping of my alarm system. Next, I hear multiple, quickly-paced footsteps in my stairwell. “I gotta go,” I say, looking around for my sneakers.

  Karma has a new face…

  Read Agents of Change Today