Swamp Murder

Swamp Murder. 6

I don't know how long I was on the ground crying, but when I sat up, my eyes drifted around, slowly taking in my surroundings. I'm in someone's compound—a big one, with a tall fence and a solid black gate. I wonder, bewildered, how I even got in here. The house, standing majestically at the far end of the yard, is unlike anything I could ever imagine owning. It has sleek glass windows, the kind I've only seen in magazines. I can't see inside, but I'm certain it's one of those one-way glass designs, where the owner can peer out but no one can look in.

The cold reality of where I am hits me. I quickly get to my feet, brushing dirt from my clothes, and then I look up. Cameras. There are cameras everywhere, blinking red, watching every move. My heart races. I am sure that someone—maybe even the owner—is looking at me right now, wondering who I am and what I'm doing here. I gulp and take a step back, muttering a quick, nervous apology. Then, driven by fear, I head for the gate.

My hands press against the cold metal as I hoist myself up, my fingers finding awkward grips on the frame. I struggle, slipping once, but I don't stop until I've managed to clamber over and drop down on the other side. Once my feet hit the ground, I pick my back from the ground and I don't even dare to look back. The place felt too clean, too quiet as if it had eyes that followed me out.

I start walking, my legs moving faster as if on their own. The street is deserted, eerily silent, like the quiet before a storm. I can't hear anything except the echo of my footsteps on the pavement, and it only makes my heart beat faster. I don't stop. My steps quicken into a trot, and then a full-out sprint, until I'm not sure if I'm running from the house or something deeper inside of me.

After what feels like an hour, the noise of life returns. I start to hear the hum of people, the clatter of carts, the shout of vendors, and I know I've reached the market. I slow down, catching my breath. I feel a momentary urge to turn back, to try to make sense of the strange compound and how I ended up there, but the thought of facing that looming house, the faceless eyes behind those cameras, chills me.

Instead, I take a deep breath, gathering myself. The sun is sinking lower, casting a golden light over the market stalls, and I realize I should go home before it gets dark. Grandma will be worried if I'm not back soon. I decide I'll head home, and reassure her that I'm okay. And later, maybe I'll go see Black.

With that plan settled in my mind, I feel a small weight lift off my shoulders. I turn toward home, weaving my way through the familiar streets.

As I near the house, the dim glow of the rechargeable lantern flickers on, casting a soft, orange hue across the walls and filling the room with stretched shadows. I smile to myself and push open the creaky door. But my smile quickly fades as I spot two imposing figures standing in the center of the room — Black's bodyguards. Their presence here is a surprise, an unwelcome one.

"Black said we should fetch you," says the larger one, the same guy who knocked my head last night. His voice is as rough as his appearance.

I take a step back, annoyance creeping into my voice. "How did you even know where I live?"

"Your mother gave Black your address," he replies casually, as though it's the most natural thing in the world. "Now, come with us."

I turn to my grandmother, who's sitting by the window. Her face is etched with worry, and I notice the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes. My heart twists a little at the sight. I walk over and wrap her in a hug, squeezing her tight. "I'll be fine, I promise," I whisper, forcing a smile that I hope looks more reassuring than I feel.

She clutches my arm, her voice shaky. "Don't go," she whispers, the words thick with emotion.

"I'll be fine, Grandma," I say, pressing a kiss to her cheek. I set down my bag and pulled back, giving her one last glance before following the bodyguards outside.