𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭

18

There was a woman in the front seat.

After the scene in the alleyway, you had turned around and fled, your heartbeat echoing in your ears like a funeral dirge. Once Yates strode from the alleyway, you scrambled into the backseat, not wanting to be within hitting distance. His face softened with relief as he saw you standing there, tears still crusting in the corners of your eyes, your frame shrunk and withdrawn.

The car ride was silent, and Yates's driving reckless. His knuckles were white against the steering wheel, nails curving crescents into the leather. He would swerve onto the opposite lanes and honk the horn so fiercely that you jumped, gripping the grab handle. You said nothing, and he didn't try to initiate conversation, instead pressing your face into the palms of your hands, constellations dazzling behind your eyelids as the pressure built.

As the drive progressed, the air in the car felt ever more stifling, like it had wrapped its hands around your throat and was throttling you. You found yourself trying to subtly peer over at Yates, see if there were traces of clotted blood smearing his fists or staining the edge of his painfully floral hawiaan shirt, to see if the fury still emanated off of him, visceral and white-hot.

Yates steered onto a different road, pulling up at a tall looking professional building; the facade was polished marble, but hairline cracks danced fissures up in two marble columns holding up the rest of the roof. A south asian woman walks towards the car, her gait steady. Yates straightens at the sight of her, pulling down the sun shield and wiping off any stray dirt or blood he got on his face. The woman doesn't even spare you a glance, instead sliding into the front seat, her face set in stone.

"Drive."

They engaged in hushed conversation for the rest of the ride as you stared out the window, a shaky hand clapped over your mouth lest you say something you regret. You were more at least; he wouldn't try anything while she was in the car, anyway. A few snippets floated down to your seat through the throngs of pop music Yates turned on so you wouldn't hear. A name, probably, Priyal, and other concerning tidbits like homicide, section three. Maybe she was his lawyer. You bit down onto your bottom lip as the landscape spun by, liquid and green. As the foliage grew thicker, you finally arrived back at home, the garage squealing open with barely enough space for the car as Yates flew in, the car shrieking to a stop.

You were all but forgotten as the two of them leapt from the car to inside. You followed, on shaky legs and a racing mind. You had to leave. It was all too convenient. Your mother's death, two days after you leave him. The man in the alleyway. The sheer anger in Yates's voice and the tightness of his grip. The memory of that slimy kiss reappears on your lips and you reach to scrub it off, again, and this time, it feels more like Yates's, the night his hand on your waist was taught and you were pressed into the edges of the couch with your vision blotted out by his tall frame. You felt sick.

Inside, Yates and Priyal had already locked themselves into his office, Yates' back facing the door. Priyal's gaze caught your silhouette, her eyes widening with understanding. Still, she said nothing, only pursing her lips and turning her attention back to Yates as you ran up the stairs.

The door to your bedroom was open, recently cleaned after you had recovered from your most recent bout of grief. All your clothes had been neatly folded, your bed made, tomorrow's work outfit still hanging innocuously from your dresser. You flung open the doors to your closet, jumping to reach a travel bag from the top shelf. Picking out a few pairs of underwear, shirts, and pants, and shoving on sneakers, you zip up the bag, now rushing to your bathroom. You watch your face and towel it dry, taking in a few heaving breaths before kneeling down. The trap phone had been untouched, but you hadn't moved that victoria's secret bag. Your hand groped around fruitlessly in the dark of the bathroom cabinets, but you let out a sigh of relief upon hearing the soft crinkle of plastic. You dragged it by the neck, opening it up to find it...empty.