the squad(Lyon#3)

Chapter 7: Roxy

I sat with my back to the wall in the corner of the little twenty-four-hour café I'd found to kill time in for the night. I'd already cased the place inside and out, but it's going to be a long time before I ever feel comfortable out in the open like this, if ever. All around me, people were going about their regular lives.

One couple was quietly arguing at the table a few rows from me; there was a homeless guy at the counter begging for leftovers or anything that will be tossed in another hour or so. It's the reason I picked this place. After being on the streets for a while, I'd learned how to find places like this, places that were friendly to people who were down on their luck.

My reasons for this were twofold. On the one hand, the everyday workers thought they were doing a kindness to those who were less fortunate. What they didn't know is that most of their bosses exploit that kindness for their own sick needs—preying on the vulnerable who had no hope of ever escaping their schemes and snares.

I felt myself becoming upset again and had to dig my nails into my palms to calm myself down. It wouldn't do to have one of my episodes here. I have to keep the docile unaware act in place so everyone would overlook my existence here and carry on with life as usual.

It's not easy to do with a face like mine, not even with the smudges of dirt and ash I'd rubbed into my cheeks. But keeping my head down and averted, not to mention hiding the turquoise blue of my eyes behind the cheap, tacky shades went a long way to disguising what I really look like.

My clothes, the ones I'd stolen not too long ago hung off of me and hid the slender body beneath, giving no hint of the curves that would no doubt draw unwanted notice from the opposite s*x. And to round it all out, I'd hidden my midnight black hair beneath a worn cap that had seen much better days.

All in all, my get-up was the best deterrent I could come up with while on the run. I picked at the day-old muffin, not really tasting it. I was much closer to my goal and yet so far. My mind went to the others I'd had to leave behind, and I felt my gut twist itself into knots.

In my head, I repeated the vow I'd made to myself the day I left—the vow to return and take them away. The weight of that promise weighed heavily on me now as I thought of all that laid ahead. This was one of those times when I wished I could lay down my burden or have someone else there to help me carry it at the very least.

But I can't trust anyone; I'd learned that a long time ago. The ones you're supposed to trust in this world can sometimes be the most monstrous. Hidden behind veneers of wealth and gentility, they're the worst society has to offer, as far as I've seen anyway, and I've seen a lot in my young life.

I saw him walk into the café, just as I'd expected. It was part of his routine to come here at the end of his long night before heading home. He didn't see me, of course, and wouldn't recognize me if he did. It had been years after all—years since he ripped me from my home and took me to hell.

He'd been promoted since then and as now a sergeant on the force—another one who should be trusted but was lacking in all virtue. My skin crawled as I watched him smile and flirt with one of the servers behind the counter, and I wondered at the ease with which he hid what he was.

No one paid attention as I left my seat and followed him out the door. He never looked back as he made his way down the busy sidewalk, turning the corner onto the street where he lived. I crossed the street just as he looked back over his shoulder, his police training probably kicking in and alerting him to the fact that someone was on his tail.

I didn't need to follow on his heels anyway; I already knew where he lived, already knew my way in. I just needed the satisfaction of hunting my prey without him knowing it, the same way he'd done with so many innocents before. I gave him enough time to enter the little one-story house he rented, enough time to get into the act of his late-night routine before crossing the street to enter his house.