The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

“I’m the one with the gun. I just need to know who not to shoot.”

“Oh. Right. Yes. Of course. I’m home if anyone needs me.”

We disconnect and I enter my building. I’m halfway up the stairs when I hear, “Who is that man who keeps coming round here?”

I pause and tilt my chin upward to find Mrs. Crawford in an orange and lime-green blouse that makes my head hurt. Or it could be the fact that I haven’t eaten since last night. “Did you see him again?”

“Last night. I know he’s not a police officer. Is he coming back tonight?”

I don’t lie to her at this point. She’s proving right now that lies always get found out. “Let’s hope not,” I say. “Do you have my cell phone number?”

“No. No, I do not.”

I hike up to her level and give her my number, letting her ask me questions I mostly dodge. “If you see him ever again, please call me right away.”

“Okay. I will. Should I worry?”

I want to tell her just to say she loves poetry and she’ll be fine. Instead, I say, “It’s probably just a prank someone is playing.”

“On only your apartment?”

“Better me than someone else. Goodnight, Mrs. Crawford.”

I head on down the stairs and she calls out, “Be careful, Sam.”

Not Detective Jazz, but Sam. I glance over my shoulder and up at her. “Always.”

I hurry down the stairs, and I swear when I’m inside my apartment with the door locked, I still can’t even rest. I search my own living space, and then finally set my gun by the door and head to the kitchen. I have just enough time to guzzle a protein shake and inhale a dozen grapes when Chuck calls. While we talk, I kneel in front of the computer with the security feed by my door and tab through the old footage.

“Do you think the DA’s office will come through?” he asks.

“It’s a fifty-fifty shot. I need something else to give him. Do you have anything?”

“I have pieces of a puzzle that takes time to put together. You know how this works.”

“Unfortunately, I do, but tell me anyway.” Thunder rumbles outside my room and rain begins to patter on my windows, and with it the tension eases in my shoulders. We’re taking tonight off. Thank you, Lord.

Chuck and I dissect what he has, piece by piece, and thankfully my security feed is clear. We’re about to hang up and I switch back to the live feed. That’s when my breath lodges in my throat. The man in the hoodie is standing at my door. The Poet is at my door.

Chapter 69

Only a door separates me from The Poet, who stands with his back facing the camera. Chuck keeps talking, but there is this cold silence all around me. I don’t move. The Poet doesn’t move. He knows that I’m here. I sense this in every fiber of my being. Somehow, too, he knows that I’m watching him. His actions seem to taunt me and deliver a promise that he’s untouchable. He’s tempting me to act rashly, to prove I’m unworthy. I won’t act rashly, and the only person unworthy is him.

With my earbuds in place, I pick up my phone and slide it into my jacket, thankful I never took it or my holster off. I reach for my weapon, the steel comforting in my hand, so much so that I ignore the holster. I hold the weapon.

And still, The Poet stands at my door.

Still, Chuck keeps talking. “One last thing before I get some rest,” he says. “Let’s talk about one thing several victims do have in common: yoga.”

“Chuck,” I say.

“Newman’s wife does yoga as well and I—”

“You need to listen. Call the patrol watching my place and tell them I need wide support backup. The Poet is back at my door. I do not want them to scare him off. Do it now.”

“I—oh God—I—”

The Poet moves suddenly, walking down the stairs, no, he starts to run. “Now!” I shout at Chuck, and dash for the door, unlock it, and fling it open. I don’t take the time to shut it again. I leave it that way, running down the stairs, only to hear Mrs. Crawford yell, “He’s here!”

“Go inside and lock your door!” I scream and damn it, The Poet is opening the building door, he’s exiting. He’s outside.

I’m not far behind him, but once I’m at the door, common sense forces me to pause. He could be outside waiting for me, right outside, hiding left or right. I crack open the door and rain smacks the ground in a hard, fast drumming that promises a blinding effect. I ease out of the opening I’ve created just enough to ensure no one is to my left and then I step into the downpour. Water hits me in an icy blast against the hot night, and with my weapon in front of me, I plant against the wall and scan right and then left, then left and right.