Page 13 of Uncontrolled

When I count the pile of twenties again, I come to the same total. One thousand, three hundred and forty dollars.

I pick up the pen and scrap piece of paper, flipping it over to the clean side before I add the numbers. I subtract rent from the total. The two utilities in danger of getting shut off, water and electricity. I stare at the remainder. Enough for groceries. Enough for more than Ramen and peanut butter sandwiches.

Blood money, my mind echoes.

Money that’ll keep me going another month. The dented refrigerator humming beside me is empty aside from condiments and the last inch of a questionable half gallon of milk I’m afraid to smell.

There’s a single bowl’s worth of cereal. I have plans to convince Christopher I ate early and skip breakfast tomorrow morning. How many times has he gone hungry in his lifetime? Surely, I can sacrifice this go around.

Or, the rational part of me insists. You grocery shop and fill the shelves.

I stare at the pile of bills resting on the stained wooden laminate countertop. Stare again at the paper where I did the math.

Blood money. Nausea rolls through me. I gather the funds into a single stack that I fold over and jam into my jean shorts.

I can’t spend cash brought in with the same tactics that got my parents killed, Sarah gutted. Tactics that almost wiped out Talia and I in Jamison’s revenge plot, that take advantage of terrified people desperate to save their loved ones.

But I need this money.

Would I have taken this same moral high ground if it’d been Sarah depositing into my account instead of Talia tucking it into my gym bag?

“It’s different!” I blurt to the empty room. But in all honesty, the only difference is two weeks ago, Sarah had still been alive. The money she gave me came from resurrections, ones I fought against performing even as I lived off the spoils.

“It’s different,” I mumble.

The sound of my voice reminds me how alone I am in the apartment. I check the time on my phone. Six hours since I left the gym. Christopher told me he’d be here tonight.

I study the window ledge, the fading dregs of sunset not enough to penetrate the cheap, scratchy fabric of the makeshift curtains.

What if he doesn’t come?

The thought sends a rush of nerves rolling through me. It takes everything inside me to swallow down the emotions. If he’s gone for good, then I go back to normal. I made it alone fine before Ploy showed up.

Christopher, I correct myself. He’s Christopher, now.

My life is utterly different since he came into it. Any ground I’ve fought under my feet is shaky and if I’m honest, it’s Christopher holding me together, his presence steadying me as solidly as his touch at the small of my back. I feel like I can’t breathe without him here.

“God,” I snap. “Could you be more dramatic?”

The scorn in my voice only makes me more embarrassed.

As if on cue, I hear a key rattle in the lock. I leap to my feet and then freeze when no one enters. A tentative knock echoes through the room.

Mentally, I assess what’s within reach. Knife on the end table. Another under the couch cushion. A canister of Mace in the second kitchen drawer. My knuckles ride the curve of my spine until I grip the hilt of the knife strapped to me. “Who’s there?”

“Can you help me?” Christopher asks.

Slumping in relief, I cross to the door, unlock the chain he wouldn’t have been able to disable anyway, then the deadbolts, and finally the little twist lock of the knob. He’s got his key pinched between his lips. Grocery bags hang from his wrists.

“What is all this?” I say, dumbfounded as he shuffles awkwardly past me, tipping his head toward a pair of plastic bags strained to bursting and abandoned in the hallway.

He puffs the key free and it clatters to the floor.

“Food!” he says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world for him to show up bearing a week’s worth of goods.

As I grab the two shopping bags, I glimpse what’s inside. These aren’t knockoff store brands. He bought the good peanut butter, crunchy, the way I like it. There’s a pound of bacon. Eggs. Toaster strudels with those little packets of too-sweet icing.

“Where did you get money for this?” I ask.

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