I jerk it open, my eyes immediately going to the array of items that I vaguely remember flying out of Sela’s purse when I kicked it through the door. My head jerks to the right, toward the elevators, but she’s gone. Her purse is gone, and she’s gone, but she left behind all that shit that spilled out. My gaze drops down further and I see the condo key with the blue rubber cover on the head of it.
It’s like a kick to my nuts seeing it lying at my feet.
“No, no, no, no,” I chant in agony as I squat to pick up the key. “Not you, Sela. This could not have happened to you. Not to my Sela.”
I don’t want to believe it because I literally don’t think I can stand to know Sela suffered that way. I don’t want to believe it because it makes me a monster for what I just did to her.
I stand up and pull my phone out of my pocket, quickly choosing Sela’s number at the top of my favorites list. On the second ring, I note that I can faintly hear a corresponding sound coming from the bedroom.
“Shit,” I mutter, and run back to our bedroom, where I see her phone lying on the nightstand beside the bed. I disconnect and look wildly about the room, trying to figure out what to do.
A quick glance down at my watch and I note that Sela couldn’t have been gone for more than five minutes, ten at the most. She could still be down at the next BART stop, waiting for public transit to whisk her away from me.
I snatch Sela’s phone from the nightstand and sprint for the front door. I pat my front pocket, relieved to feel my car key in there should I need it, and practically careen off the doorjamb as I try to cut into the hallway. I grab the knob and pull it shut hard behind me, not even stopping to lock up.
I have to catch Sela before she can get away.
Someone above is looking out for me because the elevator shows up within seconds. I jump in, jab the lobby button, and urge it to go faster. I start throwing up prayers to whoever may be listening to let me make this right with her. I’m so ashamed of the way I threw her out of my life, and how easily I discounted her claim of rape. It may be the worst mistake I’ve ever made, and I hope to God I can fix it.
When the elevator stops and the doors slide open with a soft whoosh, I bolt out and then turn left and dash for the front doors. I practically run over John, our doorman, and apologize to him as I hit the sidewalk.
The BART stop is one block down and half a block over, and luckily the sidewalks are fairly empty. It’s past the morning rush hour but it hasn’t hit lunchtime yet. I race around the corner of Mission and Fremont at a Mach 1 sprint, and my eyes immediately go to the bench in front of the bus stop. There’s only two people there waiting, and neither of them are Sela.
My chest heaving for air, I look both ways down the street, desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of her. I squint, peer hard . . . willing her to appear.
Fuck . . . I can’t even remember what she was wearing.
Totally fucking useless.
She’s gone and I know it, so I start a slower paced jog back to my building. I utter another apology to John as I brush past him into the lobby, head over to the service stairwell, and take the stairs down one more flight to the garage. Sela has to be going to her apartment and I can easily beat her there by driving. I’ll just be waiting at her front door for her, and hopefully by then I’ll have something monumental figured out to undo this clusterfuck I’ve created.
Chapter 3
Sela
Ten years ago . . .
“Bryce is such an asshole,” Whitney says as she leans her elbows on the rail bordering the upper level of the mall. It overlooks the food court below and the smell of greasy burgers and stale Chinese food filter upward. My nose crinkles in disgust.
“Agreed,” I say as my eyes slowly roam around the upper level, checking out the action tonight. I’d already scanned the food