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    Katya Dee
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  • 1,492 Words
Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

The First Lock - 26. Part 2, chapter 6

- VI -


She hadn’t cried. Not even once. Not even at the funeral. She came to work as usual on Monday morning, and Jackie blinked when he saw her. He started saying something about her taking some time off, when she interrupted him.

“I am fine, Dave,” she said. “I want this, okay?”

Jackie knew that ‘I want this’ translated into ‘I need this,’ so he didn’t say anything else. The man who shot Paul disappeared into thin air, it seemed. They got all four men who attempted to rob that damn store, but that one. Somehow, he managed to get away. They knew who he was, they had him on file, but they could not find him.

Katrena knew that his name was Kevin Miller, he was thirty-eight, unemployed, and he was quite famous. He served prison time five times. Every time it was a different reason. There was another robbery, one rape, aggravated assault, burglary, and grand theft auto. Katrena had his photograph, and she knew every single line on that face, every single freckle, every single pimple. That face was imprinted into her mind permanently, as if someone tattooed it on her brain.

Ever since after the funeral that took place on the first day of September, she was almost herself again. Well, to those who didn’t know her, that was. Those who did know her, however, were perfectly aware that she was nowhere near her old self.

Her new "students" were whispering behind her back about the fact that she was spending a hell of a lot of time with Brent lately, which was true. Katrena knew about the whispers and she couldn't care less. They did spend every single evening together, but not for the reasons some people assumed. They were restlessly searching for Kevin Miller, fine-combing every single place they could possibly think of; checking out every single person Miller had contact with within the past several years. They didn’t rush; they were very methodical and thorough. Katrena felt like now, she had all time in the world. She would find him -- she knew that. They would find him. And when they found him, they were not going to arrest him -- she knew that as well. Brent did too.

She hadn’t slept much ever since that last Friday in August. One of the reasons was the fact that she simply couldn’t fall asleep sometimes; she would lie in her bed wide-awake until four or so in the morning, doze off for a few hours before her alarm would go off at seven, then she would get up and start her usual morning routine. The other reason was the fact that sometimes she would deliberately keep herself from falling asleep because of the dreams. She would always dream of Paul or Jett; sometimes, she would dream about both of them at the same time, and when she woke up, she would feel like howling at the moon.

Damien became eerily well-behaved after Paul’s funeral. He stopped projecting on anyone; he wouldn’t as much as even try and get another candy or toy out of Mandy; and he lost his interest in video games, it seemed. Katrena knew that she wasn’t spending as much time with him as she should have, but she couldn’t help it. Kevin Miller was her only purpose right now.

Today was thirteenth of November, and she decided to spend this evening at home. “I have to do something with him,” she told Brent earlier, meaning Damien. “He barely talks lately. I gotta do something.” He agreed immediately. “I’ll call you if something comes up,” he nodded calmly.

Therefore, she was at home, playing word-search with Damien. It amazed her sometimes how fast he was able to learn how to read. She never really taught him; well, she taught him the alphabet, of course, and some simple letter combinations, but she didn’t really teach him how to read. It seemed, he figured it out on his own when he was three or so. By now, he could read almost everything that didn’t have too many confusing words in it. He loved playing word-search; sometimes, he would sit at the table for hours, his forehead wrinkling with concentration, pencil squeezed tightly in his grasp, searching for ‘robot’ or ‘astronaut’ in the cascade of random letters.

“Okay, monkey...” she said seriously. “I bet you five bucks that I’ll be able to find ten words before you do.”

“I am not a monkey,” he said absent-mindedly, his eyes scanning the page of the book. “And you gonna lose,” he added after a minute.

“Oh, you are so on!” she said as seriously as before and dove into her page.

She saw all those words almost immediately and circled nine of them, glancing at Damien, whose tongue was slightly sticking out of his mouth, pencil tentatively pausing above the page. She watched him circle all of those words, and then she said very smugly:

“Ha! I totally beat you!”

He blinked and frowned.

“You did not!”

“Did too!” she nodded and showed him her page. “Read ‘em and weep!”

He frowned with an upset twist of the mouth and looked at her page, his lips moving silently as he counted her circles.

“Hey...” he said slowly after he finished counting. “You only found nine, not ten!”

“Whatever!” she narrowed her eyes. “I won, fair and square...”

“No,” he said with a wide grin that made her feel a hell of a lot better. “Really... Look!” he smacked his pencil into the middle of the page. “Count!”

She sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Give it to me,” she grabbed the page and stared at it for a minute or so. “Oh, man...” she said finally, and closed her eyes in defeat. “I don’t believe this...”

“Told you so!” he grinned even wider. “You owe me five bucks!”

“Fine,” she grumbled, trying not to smile. “Dairy Queen tomorrow night?”

“Yup,” he nodded energetically. “I want chicken strips basket, and I want a large Blizzard!”

“Word,” she nodded, and they shook on it.

Her phone let out a shrill sound, and she automatically whipped it out of her pocket. She pressed the phone against her ear without looking at the caller I.D.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Kat?” It was Brent, and his voice was very dark with pulsating hatred and satisfaction. “I found a precious piece of trash, and I think you will like it.”

“Where are you?” she asked quietly, her ears ringing. He told her the address. “I will be there in twenty minutes,” she said and snapped her phone shut. “Damien, we gotta go. Put your shoes on.”

“You are taking me to Danny’s house, aren’t you?” he asked almost indifferently.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Danny’s house. Grab your jacket and scarf, it’s cold outside.”

“You are going to hurt him, aren’t you?” he said, and she froze in her spot.

“I am going to hurt whom?” she asked carefully.

“That man,” he said and pulled on his jacket, his sneakers already on his feet. “The one who shot Paul.”

She stared at him without blinking.

“How did you know?” she asked finally, and he shrugged.

“Because you were looking for him,” he said. “And now you found him.”

“How do you know?” she said again.

“I dunno,” he shrugged. “I just do. Are you going to hurt him?”

She remained silent for almost a minute.

“Yes,” she said finally, and he nodded and grabbed his scarf.

“Good,” was all he said before wrapping that scarf around his neck.




She killed the engine and got out of the car, ignoring the bone-chilling wind and sharp pricks of raindrops on her face. Brent was standing under a burned-out streetlight, one of his hands shoved into his pocket, the other holding a cigarette between its fingers.

“How did you find him?” she asked after he gave her a quick smile.

“Pure luck,” he offered her a cigarette, which she took. “The fucktard was buying beer at the gas station. I couldn’t believe my eyes; did a double take... It was him, all right,” he nodded. “He is alone in there,” he nodded at the shabby-looking apartment building. “I’ve been watching this shithole for the last forty minutes, ever since he waltzed in there...”

“Do you know the apartment number?” she asked in a low voice, dragging on her cigarette.

“Yeah,” he said with a stretchy smile. “Thirteen. Poetic, no? Thirteenth of November, apartment thirteen...”

“Let’s keep it on that wave then,” she said in the same low voice, cigarette resting between her fingers. “Thirteen hours before he finally expires?”

“Sounds good,” he nodded and flicked his cigarette away. She followed the same suit.

“Let’s go,” she murmured, feeling the old, very familiar rush of cold, bubbly excitement deep in her chest. She hadn’t felt that kind of a rush in a long time.

©Katya Dee; All Rights Reserved.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
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It will  be a very long thirteen hours for Mr Miller.

Did you realize she met Paul due to a 'K' and she lost him due to a 'K?'

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52 minutes ago, drpaladin said:

It will  be a very long thirteen hours for Mr Miller.

Did you realize she met Paul due to a 'K' and she lost him due to a 'K?'

I did now... 😶

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