How to Escape an Assassin

The following weeks, weird things kept happening. But I was trying to keep life as normal as possible. I ended my bereavement leave early to go back to teaching. I often stayed late to accompany the children whose parents were late to pick them up. In the mornings and on the weekend, I would go for jogs around the neighborhood. I spent my remaining free time tending to the garden in our backyard, or visiting my Aunt Lizette or Mirabai. 

I didn't want to have down time, because if I did, I started to think. I would panic over Yvette's killer, grieve for my baby sister, and, pathetically enough, I would yearn to see Tristan again.

But I doubted I would ever see him again. I didn't have his phone number or address—I didn't even know his last name. I was having dreams about Tristan every single night. It was ridiculous because I only met him once. But I craved him with every fiber of my being.

Here was the first strange incident. It was Thursday, two days before it would've been my baby sister's sixth birthday. The morning started off normal—I went for a jog, came home and took a shower, got dressed, ate breakfast, and then got in my car to leave for work. I drove an ol' reliable Toyota Camry 1998 with manual locks, manual windows, and mileage of over 250,000 miles.

As I started the car, I noticed that the brake pad felt spongy and it wasn't cooperating very well. I would have to slam down on it for about ten complete seconds until it finally churned to a stop. But once I entered the highway and reached a speed of 60 mph, I started braking to match the car in front of me and nothing happened. I instinctively dodged into a different lane, and the car in that lane had to swerve out to avoid me. What I didn't realize is that this lane was exit-only and it had a sharp curve. I desperately turned the steering wheel, the car drifting out as I rounded the curve, then I remembered that I had an emergency brake and I yanked up the handle but it had no effect. My car rolled past the red light at the end of the exit ramp and into traffic. All of the cars on the intersecting road were honking vehemently at me and swerving out of my way.

In the end, my car rolled onto the sidewalk and crashed into a tree at 20 mph speed impact. When the police arrived along with my insurance's roadside assistance, I explained the situation and they examined my car. Together they determined that someone with malicious intentions had cut my brake lines.

It was Saturday, the day of Kali's birthday. My dream last night was filled with Tristan's hostile, dangerously handsome face. I reluctantly dragged myself out of bed and got ready for the day, suppressing thoughts of anything other than Tristan. If I didn't, I would become suffocated with painful memories of Kali. Or I would become stressed and fearful, thinking about how someone cut my brake lines and intended to hurt me.

"Millie, come on!" Aunt Lizette's melodious voice sung from the hall. "We decided we're gonna clear out Kali's room. Get your butt out here."

"Coming," I droned.

We ended up spending the day erasing Kali from her bedroom. It sounds harsh, but that's what happened. We boxed up all of her furniture and toys. We painted the walls and ceiling white. We cried and we laughed. We talked about food, work, hobbies, travel plans, anything except for Kali. She was a taboo subject today, too heavy for any of our frail hearts.

The next week, there was a second strange incident. I was soundly asleep in my room, dreaming of Tristan as always. But in this dream, he felt so real. I smelled the fragrant aroma of his woodsy cologne. I was touching him, and my skin was burning from the contact. Everthing was hot. The imaginary Tristan and I were face to face, eye to eye. His intense jet black eyes were glazed sapphire and he smoldered me with his gaze. I leaned forward to kiss him, but the distance between us was still there. "Milan!" he shouted, in his rugged, commanding voice. "Get up! You have to get out of here!" He was shaking me. Everything was shaking. I was confused, he had never spoken in my dream before. And it all felt too real.

My eyes shot open.

My room was on fire.

I was coughing for air, but everything was dry. I was gagging from inhaling the smoke. I rolled over to descend from my bed, then I realized that I was already on the floor. I wasn't even in my bedroom, I was in the hallway. My eyes burned from the heat as I strained to find my bearings. "Mom!" I croaked at the top of my lungs, my voice gruff and hoarse from the smoke. "Dad!"

My bedroom door was shut. I could see that the blazing fire was contained within but the smoke was rapidly pouring out from under the doorway. I crawled to my parents' room, still choking on the smoke. "Mom, Dad!" I bellowed hysterically. Wake up!"

Thankfully, their room was still safe. I ran over and threw myself on top of their sleeping bodies. "Wake up!" I cried out. They finally became conscious, startled by my frantic behavior. "My room is on fire!"

We called 911 and spent the next few hours on the porch. Once the firefighters finished extinguishing the fire and confirmed that there was no serious structural damage to the rest of the house, we went back inside. I slept in my parents' bed for the rest of the night.