Her Obsession (by Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 130

The Sad Reality.

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(73)

We park three houses down, the street quiet except for the hum of an old porch light and the distant bark of a dog. The air is cooler now, carrying that sharp edge that comes just before the world falls completely dark. Naomi kills the engine, and the van ticks softly as it cools.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then she glances at me, grinning like a wolf. “Wardrobe change?”

“Wardrobe change,” I confirm.

We climb into the back of the van, shutting the doors behind us. The faint glow from the streetlight leaks through the tinted glass as we pull open duffel bags and start stripping out of our daytime clothes. The sound of fabric, zippers, and shifting gear fills the silence. Naomi’s humming some upbeat pop song under her breath, the sound oddly cheerful for what we’re about to do. I pull on black cargo pants and a long–sleeve top, the fabric hugging tight and familiar. My vest comes next, knives sliding neatly into their sheaths at my ribs and thigh. Naomi slips on her own set of blacks, her hair pulled tight under a black cap. We both tug on gloves, hoods up, masks covering the lower half of our faces. Two shadows ready to move.

Naomi eyes me as she adjusts her holster. “You sure you’re not about to kill them?”

“Not yet,” I say, voice calm. “But if they give me a reason…”

She smirks. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

We step out of the van and melt into the night. The gravel crunches softly under our boots before the ground turns to grass. The streetlights end before the house, leaving us in a pool of deep shadow. Perfect. The house looks ordinary with its peeling paint, a cracked porch step, and curtains half drawn, but I know better. Ordinary doesn’t mean harmless. The warm light in the living room window flickers from the TV, throwing shadows that move just enough to keep my pulse steady and ready. We stay low, slipping between the parked cars and the bushes lining the side yard. Naomi takes the right flank automatically, silent as breath. We reach the corner of the house, crouching behind a rain barrel where we can see through the living room window. Inside, the picture is painfully not normal. Lucia’s on the couch, phone in one hand, cigarette in the other. Miguel’s pacing the room, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingers. Diego sits on the floor, shoulders slumped, trying to make himself smaller than he already is. My chest tightens.

Naomi leans closer, whispering just loud enough for me to hear. “You seeing what I’m seeing?”

I nod once, jaw tight. “Yeah. I’m seeing everything I need to.”

Miguel says something, with his voice raised, muffled through the glass but sharp enough that even the boy flinches. Lucia rolls her eyes, snaps back. Diego drops his toy car, and the tiny clink against the hardwood feels like a gunshot in my head.

Naomi’s fingers brush her holster. “Say the word,” she murmurs.

“Not yet,” I whisper. “We need him safe, not in the middle of a blood bath.”

We stay there, watching. Waiting and letting the anger burn slowly instead of wildly.

Naomi shifts beside me, muttering something under her breath about hating men like that.

“Yeah,” I murmur, eyes never leaving the window. “Me too.”

The minutes crawl by like hours. Miguel keeps shouting, pacing, and waving that half–empty bottle until his words turn to slurred mumbling. Lucia hisses something back, then storms toward the door. The hinges squeal, the porch light flicks on, and she’s outside, with

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12:32 Wed, Oct 22

The Sad Reality.

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73

the phone pressed to her ear, cigarette already between her lips. Her voice drifts down the street, sharp and fast, too quiet to make out but angry enough to heat. Inside, Miguel finally collapses onto the couch. The bottle slips from his hand, hits the carpet with a soft thud, and rolls under the table. His head drops back. A minute later, he’s out cold, mouth open, chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths. We wait. Ten whole minutes. Then Diego moves. He doesn’t make a sound at first, just lifts his head, tiny eyes flicking toward the couch. He studies Miguel the way a soldier studies an enemy, waiting for the smallest sign of danger. When he’s sure the coast is clear, he stands, bare feet silent on the floorboards. He glances toward the door where Lucia left, then scurries into the kitchen. The fridge door opens, a small light spilling across the linoleum. He grabs something, a piece of bread that looks stale and dry and clutches it tight in both hands. My heart cracks. The kid looks around once more, quick and cautious, then darts for the stairs. Each step creaks, but he moves like he’s learned which ones make the least noise. When he disappears at the top, clutching that bread like a prize, I exhale through my nose.

Naomi whispers, “Now?”

“Now,” I say. “Let’s go.”

We move. Keeping low, we slip along the side of the house until we reach the drainpipe. Naomi grips the metal, testing it. It holds. “After you, Spider–Ghost,” she mutters.

I climb first, boots finding purchase against the wall, gloves gripping tight. The smell of rust and sea air fills my nose as I pull myself up, Naomi right behind me. The windows are old, wood frames swollen from years of salt and rain. We peer through the first window to find a bathroom. The next is an empty spare room stacked with boxes. We crawl across the ledge to the next window, and there he is. Diego. He’s sitting cross–legged on a thin mattress on the floor, that piece of bread half–eaten, a small flashlight flickering beside him. The red toy car is lined up neatly beside two bottle caps and a broken plastic soldier. His treasures. He looks exhausted and my heart breaks all over again. Ever so carefully, I pull the new, shiny, red matchbox car from one pocket and the wrapped cheeseburger I took from dinner out of the other. I take a long breath in, pulling my mask down and my hood off, and then I try for the softest smile I’ve ever made and tap gently on the glass window with my gifts held up so he can see.

Tap, tap, tap.

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