Chapter 1
The glint beneath the hood shifted closer.
For one second, I thought it was metal. Then the streetlight caught the round glass of a phone camera. The lens reflected my face back at me, small and pale beneath the shadow of the hood.
He was recording me.
The realization didn't make me calmer. It made the moment feel sealed, as if my fear had become something he could keep, replay, and show to someone else. My shoulders pressed harder against the graffiti-covered wall. Dust scratched through my work shirt, and I could hear my breathing in the narrow space between us.
A metal door slammed open behind him.
Hard white light spilled into the alley, cutting across the dumpster and the cracked pavement. The Hooded Figure jerked his head toward it. I saw only the shape of his jaw before the hood turned back into darkness.
A man stood in the doorway, one hand still on the handle. He wore a dark diner shirt, and the light behind him outlined his shoulders.
“Hey,” he said.
The Hooded Figure lowered the phone.
The man in the doorway looked from him to me. His voice changed, quieter but firm. “Is everything okay?”
I couldn't answer. My throat had closed around the words.
The Hooded Figure stepped away from me. He moved quickly, not running yet, one hand dropping toward the pocket of his dark pants. The phone disappeared beneath the fabric.
I pushed off the wall.
My knees felt loose, but they carried me toward the open door. I kept my eyes on the figure as I passed the dumpster. He backed toward the mouth of the alley, his hood still hiding everything that might have identified him.
The single streetlight buzzed above us. Its light fell over the graffiti wall, the dumpster's dented lid, and the strip of sidewalk leading toward the main street. I fixed those details in my mind because they were the only things I could trust.
The hooded person turned and ran.
His shoes struck the pavement in quick, uneven beats. He went toward the street, past the end of the wall, then disappeared around the corner without looking back.
The diner worker didn't chase him. He stepped out of the doorway but stopped several feet from me, leaving the distance open between us.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
The question reached me slowly. Not Are you hurt? Not What happened? Just what do you want.
“Call 911,” I said. My voice came out thin. “Please.”
He nodded once and took out his phone. “I’m calling now.”
I stood beneath the hard spill of diner light, trying to keep my hands from shaking. He turned slightly away while he spoke to the dispatcher, giving me the privacy to decide whether I wanted to stay there. I stayed because the alley behind me felt worse, and because leaving might mean the person who had recorded me would become only a story I had to prove.
He glanced toward me. “They’re sending someone.”
I nodded.
“Do you want to sit inside?”
I looked through the open door at the empty back area of the diner. Warm light, stainless steel counters, stacked boxes. Ordinary things. Safe-looking things. I couldn't make myself cross the threshold yet.
“Here,” I said.
“Okay.”
He remained near the door.
I told him the person had gone toward the street. I described the heavy dark hoodie, dark pants, and the phone he had held close to my face. I said I hadn't seen his face. I pointed out the dumpster and the wall, then the streetlight overhead. The diner worker listened without interrupting.
“My name is Malik,” he said after he finished the call. “Malik Reyes.”
“Emily.”
Sirens sounded somewhere beyond the buildings, growing louder.
Malik looked toward the street, then back at me. “The officers will ask questions. You can take your time.”
May you like
The words didn't erase the alley. They didn't make the phone disappear from the hooded figure's pocket. But they gave me one choice I could still make.
I stayed where I was and waited for the police to arrive.
