Page 13 of The Kat Bunglar

?Chapter 4

Breathe In, Breath Out & Try Not to Die

Present Day

July 8th

Chicago

Kat Kar

Kat couldn’t see herself. Ugh, her camera lens was dirty and foggy. How could she film aspontaneousroad trip montage if her camera insisted on picking up every grubby, oily thing in its vicinity?

“Shit, it’s hot! Why the hell is it so hot here?” Kat muttered to herself.

“It’s Chicago in July, miss. Whaddya expect?” The Uber driver loudly chewed his gum in the front seat.

“How do people live here?” Christian asked.

“We eat a lot. You got your deep-dish pizza, your Chicago dog, Italian beef—not to mention Greek Town, Korean Town, Chinatown. We eat, and we bowl. That’s Chicago. You ladies interested in seeing the sights? I could give you a tour of some of the star attractions.”

Kat looked at the man’s receding hairline, yellowed fingernails, and barely contained beer gut. She pasted on her artificial smile—the one that used to generate over 10K likes. “We’ll pass. We just need to get back home to the St. Regis.”

The driver let out a low whistle. “Oh, lady, you live at the St. Regis? Those are some nice digs.”

Kat preened at the recognition. “Thank you. Yes, yes, I do!” She smoothed her bob into place. “I’m Laila Malik,” she said, as if she hadn’t practiced that phrase a few hundred times in the mirror.

“The lawyer?” Harold asked. “Wow! You look too young to take on that case of the orphans.”

Christian shot Kat a look as Kat stammered to reply. “Yes, well, I use a hydrating mask at night to help reduce puffiness and wrinkles—”

She couldn’t believe the Uber driver had heard of Laila Malik. Shit—how many people knew this woman? Was she a local celebrity?

The driver gave her a confused look before replying, “Uh-huh.” He turned his focus back on the road.

Christian jabbed Kat swiftly in the ribs and pointed at her phone screen. On it was an article with the headline:

Chicago Lawyer: Laila Malik Joins Coalition of Voices Challenging the Government’s Treatment of Undocumented Immigrant Children.

“You’re impersonating Mother-effing Teresa,” Christian said out of the side of her mouth.

“I know, I know. It’s fine. I can handle it.” Kat waved the article away. But a bead of sweat ran down her back as she shifted uneasily in her seat.

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