It's Complicated

Chapter 11: Kacey Eton

The knife spins and flips around my fingers. Classical music plays on the radio in the background. I don’t want to listen to music about other people’s perfect relationships right now. I just need to distract myself, and I’ll be okay.

The house robbery was easy. The guy was too busy shoveling stuff into his bag to notice me walk up behind him and knock him out with a single hit. I handcuffed him to a dresser just for good measure. I almost got out without the family seeing me, but the little girl walked into the guest room, saw me, and screamed. The father was there in seconds. He picked her up and ran into one of the rooms, locking the door. I could faintly hear him calling the police as I left through a window.

I lightly toss the knife up and catch it, using the momentum to keep it spinning around my fingers. It’s funny how horribly dangerous this is, and how absentmindedly I do it now. I tried doing it a long time ago, and I almost had a heart attack. Now, I can do it so easily that I could do it in my sleep. I used to do it to keep my mind off of things, but now, it’s just something to keep my hands occupied.

I don’t think I will ever forget the pain in Travis’s eyes when I broke it off. He looked just as hurt as I felt. And when he came here. He had buzzed only seconds after I walked into my room from the break in. But I will never forgive myself for telling him what I did. Maybe I was wrong to think that would fix things. Maybe I should call him and explain. Then maybe he’ll understand that I had to end it. For his own good.

I set down the knife, pick up the phone and unlock it. A notification at the top of the phone says that I have fourteen texts. I skim through them quickly. All are from Travis, begging me to reconsider, and to talk to him, to call him, to explain why. I can’t look at it. It hurts. I drop the phone on the nightstand and pick back up the knife.

I am taking my aim at the front door when my phone goes off. It is the ring tone assigned to the unknown number. I pick up the phone, confused. I have no idea why he is texting me. I didn’t receive anything from anyone. No one got hurt to my knowledge. Maybe I left something at the house that the cops can link to me, and he’s warning me. I read the text anxiously:

831 Marona Village Pkwy will be broken into in 22 minutes. An escort will pick you up in 4 minutes.

Two crimes in one day? This past week or so was unusually busy, but two crimes in one day? I’m immediately suspicious. Not of the person who texts me. Of this situation. I have never had two crimes in one day. Never. It’s unheard of. Something’s up.

I reread the text, and immediately, I can’t breathe. I reread the address, just to make sure. 831 Marona Village Parkway.

“Oh no,” I whisper to myself. It’s Travis’s address. “No. No. No!” I yell. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Leaving him was supposed to keep him safe. But, I know I can’t blame myself for this. It would have happened if I had broken up with him or not. I take a second to compose myself. No. I don’t have a second.

I rush to change into my outfit and I run out the door with my bag over my shoulder, quickly locking the door behind me. I fly down the steps, taking them three at a time, and wait outside, pacing. Phil arrives about a minute later in a black SUV. I jump into the backseat.

“Floor it,” I say as I buckle my seat belt.

“I know,” he says, throwing the car into reverse and peeling out of the spot. He knows it’s Travis’s house; he’s picked me up enough times to recognize it. After turning down a few roads, I break the silence, knowing we have time to kill.

“Does it strike you odd that there were two crimes in one day?” I ask him. He keeps his eyes on the road and answers me calmly, as if he wasn’t driving seventy miles per hour in a forty mile per hour zone.