to stop and promptly began panting. Blood pumped in his ears, and he felt light-headed and dizzy. He threw himself into the car and looked back over his shoulder.
No one was there. The street behind was empty and silent. He felt woozy, and it seemed like he was staring down a long tunnel. His mind couldn’t focus, and he realized he wasn’t getting enough oxygen.
He looked around frantically for his keys, breathing in short frantic bursts, and remembered they were in his pants. The feeling of dizziness intensified.
My pants are back in the alley…
…with the dead guy.
And the world went blank.
Chapter 3
Reality came into hazy focus.
A room.
His living room.
He didn’t know why, but that didn’t feel right. Why was Haatim in his living room? How had he gotten back to his apartment? Where had he been, because he vaguely knew that he hadn’t been here? He had a strange suspicion that this wasn’t where he was before he passed out, lying on his leather couch.
And was that . . .
. . . bacon?
It all hit him at once: the night, George flying out of the window, his camera, and the attack. He sat up, gasping for air. His body felt rigid, and he let out a grunt of pain as his muscles cramped.
He focused on breathing, but he could feel himself panicking: he’d been in his car, and he hadn’t had pants on, and George was dead, and someone was after him, and he was about to be mugged or killed, and it was a dead guy, and he lost his camera and he vomited and—
“You’re awake!” a voice called cheerfully from the kitchen.
Haatim screamed.
“Shh. Don’t wake your neighbors.’
It was a woman’s voice. He looked up, cowering, and saw the lithe black woman—Abigail—he’d been following for the last few days standing in his kitchen, drying her hands on his blue kitchen towel. This was the first time he’d gotten a close-up and unobstructed view of her: she had shoulder-length curly hair and high cheekbones. There was a scar on her right cheek, maybe an inch and a half long.
She was in her early twenties, maybe, but hard to tell with most of the lights off in his apartment. She was wearing skinny jeans and a faded gray T-Shirt that read “Avalon Wolves Rock !” with a wolf’s head on it.
“Who—who—who—who—”
“Are you pretending to be an owl?”
Haatim felt his mouth hanging open, trying to process what she was saying.
“OK,” she offered with a shrug. “I guess it wasn’t that funny.”
Haatim gulped. “Why . . . ” he started “…why are you in my kitchen?”
“Because I was hungry?”
Haatim couldn’t think of a reply. He looked down and saw that he was in his underwear.
“Why am I . . . ?” he trailed off.
“Almost naked? Because you vomited all over yourself. I threw your clothes into the bedroom and shut the door. Seriously, you don’t have a washing machine or anything?”
He looked again at his underwear, feeling his face flush.
“I didn’t take those off,” she said with a laugh. “But I can’t stand the smell of vomit. You didn’t seem to mind, either. You just sort of moaned and thrashed while I did it.”
“I uh . . . I don’t have any money,” he said. “Or not a lot, but you can have . . . ”
She frowned. “You think I’m here to rob you? Why would I bring you home, drop you on your couch, strip your puke-covered clothes off you, and then cook us both breakfast if I was going to rob you?”
“Then what do you want?”
“You have been following me,” she said. She stated it directly, making it clear it wasn’t a question.
He winced as if she had punched him. “I wasn’t.”
“You’re going to try that route? I advise against it.”
He winced again. “I was hired to.”
“So you think you’re a detective?”
“Sort of.”
She shrugged. “Not a very good one.”
“I’m a blogger.”
“Ah,” she said, her face solemn. “I’m very sorry.”
“Why would you think I’m a
No one was there. The street behind was empty and silent. He felt woozy, and it seemed like he was staring down a long tunnel. His mind couldn’t focus, and he realized he wasn’t getting enough oxygen.
He looked around frantically for his keys, breathing in short frantic bursts, and remembered they were in his pants. The feeling of dizziness intensified.
My pants are back in the alley…
…with the dead guy.
And the world went blank.
Chapter 3
Reality came into hazy focus.
A room.
His living room.
He didn’t know why, but that didn’t feel right. Why was Haatim in his living room? How had he gotten back to his apartment? Where had he been, because he vaguely knew that he hadn’t been here? He had a strange suspicion that this wasn’t where he was before he passed out, lying on his leather couch.
And was that . . .
. . . bacon?
It all hit him at once: the night, George flying out of the window, his camera, and the attack. He sat up, gasping for air. His body felt rigid, and he let out a grunt of pain as his muscles cramped.
He focused on breathing, but he could feel himself panicking: he’d been in his car, and he hadn’t had pants on, and George was dead, and someone was after him, and he was about to be mugged or killed, and it was a dead guy, and he lost his camera and he vomited and—
“You’re awake!” a voice called cheerfully from the kitchen.
Haatim screamed.
“Shh. Don’t wake your neighbors.’
It was a woman’s voice. He looked up, cowering, and saw the lithe black woman—Abigail—he’d been following for the last few days standing in his kitchen, drying her hands on his blue kitchen towel. This was the first time he’d gotten a close-up and unobstructed view of her: she had shoulder-length curly hair and high cheekbones. There was a scar on her right cheek, maybe an inch and a half long.
She was in her early twenties, maybe, but hard to tell with most of the lights off in his apartment. She was wearing skinny jeans and a faded gray T-Shirt that read “Avalon Wolves Rock !” with a wolf’s head on it.
“Who—who—who—who—”
“Are you pretending to be an owl?”
Haatim felt his mouth hanging open, trying to process what she was saying.
“OK,” she offered with a shrug. “I guess it wasn’t that funny.”
Haatim gulped. “Why . . . ” he started “…why are you in my kitchen?”
“Because I was hungry?”
Haatim couldn’t think of a reply. He looked down and saw that he was in his underwear.
“Why am I . . . ?” he trailed off.
“Almost naked? Because you vomited all over yourself. I threw your clothes into the bedroom and shut the door. Seriously, you don’t have a washing machine or anything?”
He looked again at his underwear, feeling his face flush.
“I didn’t take those off,” she said with a laugh. “But I can’t stand the smell of vomit. You didn’t seem to mind, either. You just sort of moaned and thrashed while I did it.”
“I uh . . . I don’t have any money,” he said. “Or not a lot, but you can have . . . ”
She frowned. “You think I’m here to rob you? Why would I bring you home, drop you on your couch, strip your puke-covered clothes off you, and then cook us both breakfast if I was going to rob you?”
“Then what do you want?”
“You have been following me,” she said. She stated it directly, making it clear it wasn’t a question.
He winced as if she had punched him. “I wasn’t.”
“You’re going to try that route? I advise against it.”
He winced again. “I was hired to.”
“So you think you’re a detective?”
“Sort of.”
She shrugged. “Not a very good one.”
“I’m a blogger.”
“Ah,” she said, her face solemn. “I’m very sorry.”
“Why would you think I’m a
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