Page 56 of The Kat Bunglar

Kat looked at Hal’s grey hair pulled into a loose ponytail and the multitude of tattoos covering up his saggy neckline. She swallowed her distaste. “That sounds so tempting; however, I would hate to mix business with pleasure.”

Hal wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “C’mon now, don’t be boring. What’s business without pleasure?”

Kat abruptly pulled back the duffel bags. “You know, on second thought, maybe I’ll call the police myself—and while I’m at it, report a certain pawnshop broker for looking the other way on stolen goods instead of verifying the original owner, as required by state regulations.”

“Now, now, missy, no need to get your knickers in a twist. I’ll stick to my end of the deal. Leave your stuff here. I’ll keep it locked up and until then—”

“We never spoke!” they both said, eyeing each other warily.

Kat nodded and left the pawnshop, walking toward a coffee shop a mile down the road. “Laila, can you hear me?” she beseeched in her brain. “Are you coming?” Kat needed to speak to her again. She needed Laila to know she was trying to make it right.

Entering the Awakening Coffee shop, she ordered a Matcha Yuja and sat at the corner table waiting for it to be made. Drumming her fingers against the table, she reached for her phone and realized she hadn’t looked at it all day. There were no notifications, no likes, no trolls leaving disparaging comments. Her phone was a silent zen of nothingness. It was oddly calming.

Looking at Laila on Instagram, Kat realized she needed to create a fake profile if she was going to reach out to her again. Reluctantly uploading an old photo, she reclaimed her username handle Kat_Kares. Strange that the persona no longer seemed to fit her.

Calling Laila once again, Kat closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and prayed that Laila would pick up the phone.

July 19

Chicago

Laila Malik

Closing her eyes and resting her head against the seat of the town car heading to the airport, Laila tried to ignore the tension that was emanating from Gabriel. Feeling her phone vibrate, she swiped it open with bleary eyes.

“Where are you?” the voice of an outraged teenager met her ears.

“I beg your pardon,” Laila replied, her voice coming out frostier than she intended.

“Sorry, I just—I let you know who took your things, and you’re taking forever to get here,” the same petulant voice continued.

Laila sat straight up as she realized who she was talking to. Gabriel looked at her quizzically. She quickly put the phone on speaker. “Kat, is that you?” Laila asked.

They heard a sigh and then a quick whisper of, “Yeah, it is.”

“Kat, Gabriel and I are on our way to LA right now. We’ll be there in five hours tops. Where are you? We can meet you and straighten this whole thing out—”

“Gabriel? Oh my God! Why are you bringing your stalker neighbor with you?”

Trying to keep the conversation on track, “Gabriel is my neighbor and good friend,” Laila corrected.

“Bruh, dude is like madly in love with you. Why bring your simp with you? That’s such a drag.” Gabriel narrowed his eyes at the phone and curled his lips in distaste.

“Anyway, you’re coming so late!” Kat continued. “Joseph is meeting the Haitian militia tomorrow—”

Laila scrambled to find a notebook and pen from her carry-on tote bag. “Haitian militia, what is going on? Who are you with? What are you a part of?”

“Don’t worry, it’s cool. I’m going to have the police raid the whole thing. But your stuff might be held as a result, so I thought if you got here sooner, you could get your stuff back.”

“I can meet you tomorrow morning,” Laila said hastily, trying to rectify things. “Just let me know when and where.”

She heard Kat pause and sigh. “Are you going to bring Mr. Rico Suave?”

Laila bit her lip to keep from laughing at Gabriel’s murderous expression. “Not if you don’t want me to. I can leave him at the hotel.”

“Um...no. It’s fine. I owe him an apology anyway. I’m glad he’s alive. Is he wonky though? Was there any permanent damage from when we—anyway. Alright, tomorrow. I’ll meet you at the Good Stuff Diner near Redondo Beach.” And with that, Kat abruptly hung up the phone.

Laila struggled to piece it all together. On an old napkin, she had written: “Haitian Militia, Good Stuff Diner, Redondo Beach.” She gasped as realization hit. “Redondo Beach—Gabriel, my wallet! They found out about me from my wallet. I left it there the night I left your art exhibit. That’s how they know me.”

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