Page 30 of Yours to Keep
A second message lands, and I scrub my palm down my face. I don’t have the energy for this shit right now.
Deck.
You are going to die alone because you refuse to let me help
Attached: GIF of an elderly man sitting alone on a park bench.
Deck.
BTW, that’s you, fucker.
CJ.
Lose my number, asshole.
Deck.
I love you too.
He’s a menace, but I can’t stop the faint laugh that slips out anyway. The laugh feels thin, barely there. It fades quickly, leaving the same quiet weight behind.
Eventually, I call it. Lock up and head out.
The building feels emptier on the way down, silence replacing the usual noise, the hum of people and phones and movement gone. Only the security desk remains active.
The guard looks up as I pass.
“Goodnight, CJ.”
“Night.”
Outside, the rain hits my face immediately. Cold. Clean. Exactly what I need.
I cross the car park toward my truck and stop. Something feels off. My pulse shifts, steady but sharper. My breathing slows automatically, the way it used to before stepping into unknown territory.
My eyes scan every dark corner of the car park. And then I see it.
A vehicle sits tucked into the far corner behind the building, half-hidden like someone chose the spot on purpose. I slow instinctively.
Staff car park. Not visitor hours.
Deck would call it my Yoda senses, but no, I just call it experience. The military doesn’t really leave you with the luxury of ignoring that feeling.
The windows are fogged from the inside, which means that someone’s in there.
I take another step.
Then stop again.
“This isn’t my problem,” I mutter, except my feet don’t listen. A familiar tension coils low in my stomach. My senses sharpen, picking up every sound, every shadow, every shift in the rain.
“Fuck.” I change direction towards the car.
The rain thickens as I cross the lot, soaking through my jacket, turning cold into something that settles under the skin.
The closer I get, the clearer it becomes.
A dark blue Toyota. Older model. Well cared for, but tired in the way vehicles get when they’ve done too many years and too many miles without stopping long enough to recover.
