The smell of rotten banana hit my nose as I crouched next to a garbage bin, my left hand gripping a disposable phone that even now was ringing into my ear. My other hand rested on the ripped seat of my hoverbike. 

I wasn't a complete idiot. My head was covered by a newly acquired purple skull pattern helmet complete with a tinted visor. And this wasn’t my apartment. I watched the public entrance and window to my dad's apartment building for suspicious activity.

I watch as a pizza delivery guy is waved through. I patiently wait as he returns down after delivering pizza to my dad's door and leaves uneventfully. "See. Nothing suspicious. Mr Killer was paranoid."

I consider dragging my bike up the steps. If I left it near this garbage bin, forget theft, it might be disposed. It certainly looked like scrap to the untrained eye. Cracked screen on the gages and L-shaped bent handle. Then again, it was low on gas and a waste of time if my stalker showed up. 

Where was I...oh right. My father...my backup. Seems he wasn't home to receive the pizza. I dialed his number agains. Let it ring. "Pick up old man."

The call cut off and went to voicemail. Or not. I hung up and entered the stylish lobby, tiled with marble and accented in gold trims, a deep-sea fish skeleton hanging on the ceiling, and leather seats filled out the lobby. 

I made my way to the shiny black rim of the reception desk, leaning my arms against the table, as I eyed the usual receptionist who was typing. 

"Hi Joe. Any chance I can preview the latest chapter of your masterpiece? Men love swords, right?" When I was still a chair-height tyke, I used to loiter here. I thought my parents would come get me. I accidentally glimpsed his screen one day, uncovering the identity of pen name Benevolent Devil, a beloved romance writer. 

"Miss.. Miss Rolan." 

"Just Janie please. Can you send me up?" I dramatically pointed to the ceiling. 

He handed over a visitor pass key.

"Thanks."

I smoothly transition into the elevator and press 9 for my police dads' floor. "Oh and Janie," Joe called. I caught a grey knit sweater that nearly hit my face, "Your shirt." 

I blink. It wasn’t actually mine. When the elevator doors closed, I inspected my outfit. My floral tank had a hole near my bra, the turquoise padding showing through.  I pulled the knit sweater over my long arms and down my stomach to cover. A loose thread on the sleeve attracted my attention, and I picked at it with my long nails as the elevator ascended. I had lost count of the lost-and-found items I took home with me.

A soft ding indicated my arrival on the desired floor. After a quick glance at the neon red 9 on display,  I step into the hall and over to the corner apartment on the left. Pick up the box of pizza left on the floor hallway. My hands dial in a practiced code. Mechanisms turn and I pull the door free, clicking it shut behind. 

“I’m home,” I drawl into the empty apartment. 

Spotting a laptop on the island counter, I set down the pizza box and take a seat on a barstool. Moving aside several paper files I bring the machine closer. 

I eat a slice as I wake up the machine, click my profile and navigate to my usual private chat group. Having swallowed the pizza, I absently lift a half cup of cold coffee left on the counter and take a sip.

Most of the messages were from Donnie asking where I was. 

D Bro: I've reported you as missing. If you see this, please call the police station so we know not to worry.

Weird. Why didn't Joe at the desk make a fuss when he saw me? Wouldn't he be questioned since this was a place I frequent?

Feeling confused, I dial my father's phone one more time. I heard a ring from the bedroom and hung up. Did he take the day off sick? 

“Dad,” I called into the house. 

My voice sounds small against the thick walls and luxury spread of the two-bedroom apartment. Judging from the dirty dishes in the sink and the papers scattered in the projection theater living room, the maid had not come in yet. Weird. Scattered on the ground. Had dad been upset?

I move to the living room door to better read the scattered papers. A red high-heeled shoe attached to a delicately pale foot takes my attention. And suddenly I can’t breathe. I feel hot and cold. The maid. Dead maid. Bullet wound in her back. On the carpet amid the scattered paper. I freeze there for another gruesome moment. 

I rush past to shove open the bedroom door, disregarding incriminating myself. My pale-faced father hung from the ceiling fan, three patches of blood blooming on his chest. My cheap burner phone slips and cracks on the marble in the hall. A sharp pain pierces my shoulder. Black dots dance in my vision. My hand has gripped the injury. A dart my blurry mind supplies. Before…

Before...