Page 105 of Alfie: Part Two

I squinted up the sidewalk and, yeah, no, fuck it, I gave up.

Next time I checked my phone, I was sure Finn would be ghost again.

Actually, I did have one last thing to type, because one of us was supposed to do it. Might as well be me. Plus, it would end this conversation hella swift.

Guys, have you seen the news?

There.

I jogged up the stoop and hit the buzzer, and Dad let me in.

The elevator worked for once, so I didn’t need to run up the stairs and risk sweat around my unwhacked asshole.

That was nice.

Dad opened the door just as I was about to knock.

“Oh—hey.” I smiled and walked in. “How are you?”

“I’ll let you know when I’ve narrowed it down to half a dozen emotions,” he said. “What about you?”

“Other than the fact that I just made a giant ass of myself in a group chat, I’m great.” I shrugged off my coat and hung it up.

“Alfie, is that you?” Ma called.

“Aye!” I kicked off my shoes next and trailed into the living room. “How are you, Mom?”

She was still in her robe and curlers, and she looked comfortable. Like she might actually be enjoying the time off work—if only a little. If only in the mornings.

“I am okay. Your father bought breakfast.” She gestured at the coffee table. “One day, he will learn to cook.”

“I don’t think he will, honey,” Dad answered.

I chuckled and dipped down to kiss her cheek. Then I sat next to her, and she prepared me a plate with scrambled eggs, a croissant, and bacon.

“What brings you by,mijo?” she asked.

“I, uh…” I exchanged a brief glance with Dad. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Yes…?”

I cleared my throat and left my plate on the table for now. “It’s about the attack.” I saw how she stiffened, and I hated it. “I want you to know it’s over. Those two men who’ve been going after those women—and you—they’re not gonna be a problem anymore.”

She knitted her eyebrows in confusion, and I nodded at Dad to turn on the news.

They weren’t gonna show anything gruesome or nothing. Uncensored videos were leaked on social media.

“What do you mean?” Mom asked me, turning toward the screen.

The local station showed a banner at the bottom that read “Who runs Philly?” which was a play on the messages that’d been left with each body part. Simple white card in a simple white envelope.

You know who runs Philly.

“Thank you for being with us today, Claire. We are currently waiting for the press conference…”

Underneath the headline, it read?—

“Why does it say severed limbs connected to South Philly assaults?” Mom demanded.

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