1
KANDY
I remember the very first day I met Mr. Cane.
I was only nine years old, but I remember exactly what I saw and how I felt when I first laid eyes on him.
A shiny black car pulled into the driveway of our two-story home, parking less than a yard away from where I was. I sat on the tire swing of the big tree on the front lawn, wearing dingy-white chucks with rainbow laces, jean overalls, and knee-high pink socks. I was covered in grass stains after playing hide-and-seek with Frankie earlier that day.
I squinted my eyes and watched as the car door swung open and the sole of a shiny, black dress-shoe planted itself on the pavement. My eyes shifted over to the navy blue suit pants he wore, then up to the white button-down shirt that was rolled at the sleeves, revealing strong, inked forearms. And then I found his face. He stood tall, shoulders broad, a pair of sunglasses covering his eyes. His skin was a rich bronze, like it’d been kissed by the sun his entire life. He rolled his neck, and I swear I could hear the crack of it from where I sat.
I don't think he saw me right away, but I saw him. He was too busy looking at the house, probably impressed by it. I really liked that house, too.
The man shut the door behind him, and when he took a step to the side, I noticed a tattoo on the curve of his neck. RISE. I could see the word in bold script from the short distance away.
His jawline was sharp, the barest trace of stubble on his face. There was ink on his hands and all over his arms, some of it dark, some colorful. His dark brown hair was tapered on the sides and in the back, the lengthier part at the crown gelled back. If I were to guess, I would have assumed he was no older than thirty. Maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven?
He inhaled and then exhaled, taking off his sunglasses, and when he finally turned his head to the left, his eyes landed right on mine.
His face didn't change.
He almost seemed unbothered by my presence, or like he already knew who I was.
I didn't know him at all.
He walked toward the hood of his Chrysler still eyeing me, head in a slight tilt, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, plucked one out, and then stuck it between his lips. A lighter was in his other hand, and he lit the cigarette in a flash, taking a hard pull from it.
I frowned at him. "You know you probably shouldn't smoke," I said, pushing back, lifting my feet, and easing into a light swing. "It's bad for you."
He continued puffing, sitting on the hood of his car. "You should mind your own business."
I stopped swinging, planting my feet on the ground. "Are you supposed to be here? I don’t know who you are…"
"I’m a friend."
"I’ve never met you. How can you already be my friend?" I challenged.
He shrugged. “Don’t know, but what I do know is that you ask a lot of questions.”
Okay. This guy was being a real jerk. I stood up, narrowing my eyes at him. "My dad is a cop. I’ll tell him you’re out here.”
At that, he smirked and stood tall, looking at me beneath thick eyebrows. He waved his free hand at me. "Go on, then. Tell him."
My heart was pounding now. I'd never had an adult talk to me that way. I panicked, running for the house before he could do something crazy, like stop me, or trap me, kidnap me, or something. I didn't know who he was. For all I knew he could have been here to kill my entire family.
"Dad!" I screamed, bursting through the front door. The soles of my shoes pounded into the wooden floorboards as I ran down the hallway. "Dad!"
Dad popped his head around the corner of the kitchen, brows heavily stitched. "What, Kandy? What is it?" he asked, concern etching his face.
I clung to him, throwing my arms around his waist.
"Kandy, sweetheart, what's wrong?" Mom asked from the fridge, rushing my way as soon as she shut it.
"There's a-a man standing out there. He's smoking a-and he told me to mind my own business!"
"What?" Dad immediately pulled away, handing me over to Mom, who cupped my face and then reeled me against her.
The doorbell rang, and Dad looked at her, worry creasing at his forehead. "Stay in here," he told us both, and I was really scared then.
My instincts were right. He was a bad guy. Good thing I ran.
Mom pulled me even closer as Dad stepped around the corner to get to the living room. I heard things rustling around and then he came back out with his service pistol, tucking it in the waistband in the back of his pants.