Page 19 of Marked

“Which one?” I ask as we stand in front a pair of doors.

Harley freezes.

“Which one is it?” I ask again, laying a hand on her shoulder. She jumps.

“What?” She twists toward me. “What did you say?”

“Which apartment?” I gesture to the stairs.

“Oh.” She breathes a sigh of relief, like she’s just realized she’s here at home and not somewhere else. Wherever she thought she was for those few seconds, it terrified her.

“This one.” She starts up the stairs to the left.

“That guy at the bar.” I’m opening the box I’m sure she wants to weld shut, but doing that will only make things harder later. She’s harboring pain, and I can’t have that.

It doesn’t belong to her anymore.

“Yeah?” Harley slides her key into the deadbolt lock on her apartment door. She lives above a dry cleaner, a mile away from the bar. The shop below is closed, but the aroma of chemical steam clings to theair.

“Does that happen a lot?” I ask, shutting the door behind me once we’re inside.

The air is cool inside the apartment, and the stench from outside hasn’t creeped in. It smells of vanilla and cinnamon. Probably from the candles on the coffee table.

The apartment is small; there’s a kitchen, with a two-person table, that leads directly into the living space where she has an oversized armchair and a loveseat facing the television. Three bookcases line the exterior wall.

Simple, but I can still feel her here.

She drops her purse and keys on the kitchen table before turning to me.

“Around now, yes.” She goes to the fridge, bending over to look inside. The light hits her face, shining on a raised scar. It’s thin, and runs from her cheekbone to her ear.

“Because of the news?” I lean my hip against the counter.

She grabs a bottle of water for herself and offers one to me. I take it.

“Yes.” She opens her bottle, takes a sip. “They think they’re helping, but they’re not.” She hesitates, then screws the cap back on.

“Help how?” I’ve never seen anything helpful about the media.

“I told you my sister was murdered. They never caught the guy.” She walks to the love seat and sinks down, tucking her feet beneath her. The V-neck T-shirt she’s wearing pulls tight around her chest when she leans back and my gaze dips to the swell of her breasts.

“He said you witnessed it.” I know everything that happened, but I want her to tell it.

“I did.” She nods, then leans to the coffee table and puts the bottle of water down. “It’s not a fun story, Zack.”

I shake my head. “No. I wouldn’t think so. But that’s the second time someone’s brought it up this week.”

“Next Friday is the anniversary.” She sighs and folds her arms over her stomach.

I take the seat next to her, sitting sideways so I can face her.

“Tell me,” I order her, laying my hands on her knees.

She looks away for a second, and when she looks back her jaw is firm.

“You didn’t read about it already? I mean a quick Google search would tell you everything.”

It wouldn’t tell me anything about her experience though, only the webs journalists spin to get clicks. It’s not information about what happened that I want, it’s her I want to know. “I want you to tell me.” There is so much to learn about her, and I crave all the knowledge on the subject I can get.

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