Criss Cross E-BOOK

CHAPTER ONE

     The ominous sound of something scraping across the cement behind me raised the hairs on the back of my neck. I slid my fingers under the thick braided strap of my camera bag, preparing to use it as a weapon, as I paused to look behind me.
     I’d stayed out too late photographing a young couple. The sun had dropped behind the horizon fifteen minutes ago, and it had been a long walk back from the park.
     I scanned the dark streets. Light from the street lamps cast an orange glow over the buildings and sidewalks. A few female silhouettes haunted the corner, laughing and talking too loudly, and a taxi trolled slowly by.
     I forced myself to breathe again and continued walking.
A tune I couldn’t quite place drifted through my mind, distracting me from dwelling on the eerie street. I’d heard it somewhere before—something about someone saying hello and someone saying goodbye—and it was stuck in my head like a skipping record.
     The faded yellow door of my apartment stood out in the darkness, and the sight of it sent a wave of relief through me. My living space wasn’t technically an apartment; it was the unwanted, unkempt basement of an apartment complex that the owner had rented to me for dirt cheap. I couldn’t afford much more than dirt.
I hurried down the two cement steps and thrust one of the keys into the first lock. Another chilling scrape came from somewhere behind me.
     I stiffened with my key poised over the remaining keyhole. The last thing I wanted to do was let a lunatic into my apartment.
     If he made it into my apartment and locked us in, only the fire department could save me, and they would need to bring the Jaws of Life. This metal door would not budge otherwise.
     Nope, getting attacked outside was much safer.
     I glanced over my shoulder, but saw no one. I listened for the telltale scrape, but only the quiet crackling of tree limbs in the breeze and a distant siren broke through the silence. The city was quiet. Unnaturally so. That in itself was unsettling.
     I slid the key into the lock, twisted it, and cracked the door just enough to slip through. I squeezed into my apartment and slammed the door behind me. I flipped all three dead bolts with practiced quickness and then dropped back against the door with a relief that made my knees weak.
     The scent of must and lilac air freshener greeted me as I drew in a breath. No matter how often I cleaned, the musty aroma remained embedded in the walls and ceiling.
     I shrugged my bag off on the kitchen counter immediately to my left, flipped the light switch that ignited the lone bulb over my kitchen table, and pushed away from the door.
     My living space was a single L-shaped room with a quaint, if mismatched, kitchenette, a claustrophobic bathroom closet, and an alcove where my bed rested. I savored the openness. Small spaces brought back old memories better left forgotten.
     A small chirp drew my gaze to the floor. A gray cat staggered around my ankles, his wide body throwing off his balance. Jordan looked up at me with crystalline blue eyes, pleading. I sighed and scooped him up with a grunt of effort.
     “If I’d known you were going to be this chunky, I would’ve named you Sausage.” I shifted his weight in my arms and he head-butted my chin affectionately. I really needed to put him on a diet.      Would that be considered animal cruelty?
     I grabbed the empty glass from the counter and filled it with water. A chunk of soggy cat food floated to the top of the glass and I set it aside with a frustrated sigh. “Really?” My cat blinked at me with wide, innocent eyes from the crook of my arm.
     There were times when Jordan seemed confused about his species. He had an irritating habit of squirreling away his food anywhere he could find a spot: between couch cushions, in dishes, the silverware drawer . . . even the laundry hamper.
     “I wasn’t thirsty anyway,” I grumbled.
     I passed from the kitchen into the living room in four steps, and walked to the faded purple couch. I dropped Jordan onto the worn cushions and picked up the card-shaped envelope I had found taped to my door that morning. I hadn’t had the opportunity to open it.
     I sank onto the cushions beside Jordan as I examined the envelope. It was addressed simply to Holly, and where the return address should be, all it said was Kansas.
     I glanced at the battered silvery bracelet on my left wrist. It had begun to turn green around the edges a long time ago, and the letters engraved into the surface had all but faded away, leaving just a shadow of my name: Holly.
     It was the only thing that had truly been mine when I drifted from one foster placement to the next, and I couldn’t bring myself to part with it.
     “Kansas,” I said thoughtfully, letting the name roll around on my tongue. I didn’t receive mail. I paid the landlord in cash for my utilities and rent, and I had no formal address. I glanced at my cat. “Do we know anyone from Kansas?”
     My plump feline couldn’t have looked more disinterested. I sighed and slipped my finger into the crease of the envelope, carefully tearing it open. There was a note card inside. Typewritten across the center of the card was the message:
     Holly, come home.
     An unexpected chill traveled down my spine. What was that supposed to mean? I had lived in a number of places in my twenty-eight years, but none of them had been in Kansas, and none of them had been home. At best they were rest stops, at worst . . .
I puffed out an anxious breath and flipped the card over. Except for the single phrase on the front, it was blank. There wasn’t even a recipient address on the envelope, just my name.
     The implications of that were terrifying.
     Someone had tracked me down and taped it to the outside of my door. I moved through the world in the shadows, because that was the only way I knew how to survive, and this wasn’t a good sign. I dropped the card on the couch as if it had singed my fingers, and stared at it warily.
     I tapped an anxious rhythm on my thighs as I contemplated throwing what I could in a bag and running. Maybe I had stayed here too long; maybe I had become complacent.
     I glanced at my cat when he bumped my leg with his head and purred. “Did he find us?” When I moved in a year ago, I had been determined to stay, to carve out a life for myself, but I’d known it was temporary. It was always temporary.
     But this place was more a home to me than any other place I could remember. At times I even felt safe, and I wasn’t ready to give that up. I had even adopted Jordan, and I couldn’t abandon him; I wouldn’t. I knew all too well how that felt.
     I pulled him into my lap and stroked his head. His purr sputtered briefly before catching and deepening into a full-blown lawn mower vibration.
     I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. The verse fluttered through my mind, sparking hope. I could do this. Someone finding me was a complication I didn’t need, but it was one I could handle. I had Jesus, and I had chocolate.
     I stood and walked to the kitchen. I dragged a folding chair over to the counter and climbed on top of it. I fished a chocolate bar out of the back of the cupboard. I love the kind of bitter dark chocolate that makes you shiver with surprise when it first hits your taste buds.
     I plopped onto the counter and unwrapped the long slender bar. The first bite was heavenly. I savored the bittersweet flavor as it melted over my tongue. I took another bite. I should really stop there and tuck the rest back into its hiding spot. I stared at the chocolate, feeling conflicted.
     “Eh,” I muttered with a shrug. I was going to eat the whole bar. I was stressed.
     I slid off the counter and strode to my bed. Jordan trotted behind me, anticipating cuddle time. He bounced up and down on his hind legs a few times, too fat to scale the bed, and then sat down in defeat. He let out a wail that should be reserved for wounded or dying animals, and I took pity on him. I dragged him onto the bed next to me.
     I flopped back on the blankets and grabbed the notebook and pen from the top of the cardboard box that served as my nightstand. I released a heavy breath as I uncapped the pen and opened the book.
     It was my nightly tradition. In a life of chaos, it was easy to be swallowed by despair and pain, so I had decided to be thankful for at least one thing every day. I pressed the pen to the page tentatively.
     This was the first time fear hadn’t sent me running, a decision I hoped wouldn’t be an awful mistake, and I considered the reasons for that. I glanced at the purring bundle against my side and started to write.

     Dear Jesus,
     Today I’m thankful for Jordan. And for chocolate.