I stood in my workroom and listened to the building until my ears rang.
Then I laughed at myself, once, with no air behind it.
Kiln Yard had been full of people an hour ago. Now it was a brick box with me inside.
The hall light was on. That was fine. The hall light was always on.
I would walk down, get my car, and lock my own front door like a normal person.
The fire extinguisher sat by the stairwell. I had walked past it a thousand times.
Halfway down, I heard a chair move upstairs.
In my studio. Behind my locked door.
Faye: Hello?
My voice went up the stairwell and came back the same. Small.
Faye: Marcy, that's not funny.
The door of my workroom opened.
He stepped out and the hall light found his face.
Shaved head. Gray hoodie. Gloves.
I knew him from the alley. I knew his hands.
Coyle: You're the one with the phone.
Coyle: Nice place. Smells like wet clay and a wet dog.
He came down two steps. Slow. Like he had all night.
Coyle: You were supposed to forget.
Faye: Forget what?
It was the stupidest thing I could have said. It got out before I could close my mouth.
Coyle: Don't. Don't play dumb with me, sweetheart.
He kept coming down. I kept backing up.
My heel found the edge of a step and I sat down hard on the stairs.
Coyle: You took my picture. Then you called the cops. Like a dumb fucking bitch.
Coyle: Now I've got people asking me questions. You know what that costs me?
His voice never went up. That was the worst part.
Coyle: So I came down here to give you a chance to fix it.
He put a gloved hand around my wrist. The glove was cold and dry.
He squeezed until the small bones moved.
Faye: Ow. Stop.
Coyle: You feel that? That's nothing yet.
Coyle: You talk to one more cop, and I don't come for you.
My whole body went cold from the top down.
Coyle: I bring a friend, and we take turns.
Coyle: And when we're done, you ride in the back with the trash.
I believed him. Not because he shouted. Because he said it like a man reading a shopping list.
Coyle: Now. Your phone.
He let go of my wrist and held out his hand.
My phone was upstairs in my apron pocket. That was the only good thing I had left.
Faye: It's in my studio. Upstairs.
Coyle: Then we're going up.
He turned his head toward the stairs.
The extinguisher was at my hip. I didn't decide anything.
I got both hands on the handle and swung it up as hard as I could.
The bottom of it hit his jaw. There was a noise like a dropped crate.
He went back into the wall and his head knocked the rail.
Faye: Fuck you.
I didn't wait to see if he got up. I ran.
Out the back door, down the alley, past the doors where the van had been.
My keys were in my pocket. My phone was not. I didn't care.
The café on the corner was still open. Twelve people and a light that hurt my eyes.
I got through the door and my legs quit on me.
Faye: Call the police. Please.
A woman in an apron put a chair under me and a glass of water in my hand.
It shook so hard I set it down on the floor.
Someone called. Someone sat with me. I couldn't tell you who.
The marks on my wrist were already going dark. Four of them. His fingers.
He hadn't taken anything. He had let me keep everything and still walked away free.
That felt like a bill I had agreed to pay.
Blue light moved on the wet bricks outside. Then red. Then blue again.
I was not alone anymore. That was supposed to help.
It helped about as much as the water did.
Later I would find out he left nothing behind. No prints, no name, no proof.
Just a chair dragged out from my wheel. He had sat in my studio and waited for me.
You were supposed to forget. Like it was my job now, and I was already late.