Chapter OneMo“Who. The Hell. Are You?”
Mo did not raise his head. He took a slow breath in, noticing a few missed suds still glistening on his just-rinsed hands dripping over the sink. He willed his heart to slow after the shock of the unexpected voice behind him. He should have been alone in the empty workshop that shared a wall with his own.
“I asked you a question.”
The woman’s voice was cold, steely. No sign that she’d been hit by a wave of adrenaline like the one that was still coursing through his own body.
“I’m Mo,” he said, his voice scratchier than he’d intended.
“How did you get in?” she asked.
While still hard, her voice had lost a bit of its edge, so he took the risk of lifting his head slowly.
“I have a key,” he said. Between the harshness of the florescent bulb high on the wall and the large chunk missing from the mirror above the sink, he couldn’t catch a glimpse of her without making a sudden movement. Which he was sure wasn’t wise.
“Why?” she asked.
It occurred to him that it might be marginally safer for both of them if she could look him in the eye. He turned slowly, keeping his hands in view. Another blast of adrenaline cut his breath as he came face-to-face with a loaded crossbow, its arrow pointed squarely between his eyes.
Months earlier, at his auto shop, Mo had interrupted one of his newer mechanics watching a video on the shop floor with one of the delivery men. They had been far too excited to show it to him, and Mo was subjected to the sight of a deer being taken down by a crossbow. The deer’s pain and terror had weakened his bones and forced Mo to look away. Now, at the business end of a bow that looked exactly like the weapon from the video, he was fully aware of the damage they could do. His Adam’s apple was as heavy as a billiard ball when he tried to swallow.
“Is that . . . a crossbow?” he asked, slowly raising his hands.
She lifted her chin, but the crossbow didn’t waver.
“Yes,” she said.
“A . . . a real one?” he asked.
“Yes.”
The silence was sharp and heavy. The absence of any other sound amplified the thudding of his too-fast beating heart. It clipped at the bottom of his throat. He wanted to shake the adrenaline burn out of his raised hands, but he didn’t dare move them.
“So?” she asked.
Her voice widened his vision beyond the crossbow, and it was only then that he began to see the person holding it. She was about five foot six. Her jeans were covered in dust, as was her black shirt. Her hair was dark and long, pulled into a ponytail that fell over her shoulder, more like a cheerleader’s than a potential murderer’s. Her skin was pale, but he didn’t know if that was from fear, or if it was her normal complexion. The depth of her narrowed eyes reminded him of the charcoal dust he’d been washing off his hands. At some point, she’d turned on the hallway light behind her.
“Listen,” he said. “I’m just here to wash my hands.”
“After you finished chopping people up?”
Chopping people up?
Confused, he glanced down at himself. Nothing out of the ordinary about his work pants. Yeah, his well-used leather apron was dingy, but it wasn’t bloody. Was she freaked out about the respirator he’d pushed onto his forehead?
“I’m a blacksmith,” he said, looking back at her. “I was working next door. But my sink doesn’t work. So Arnie, you know, the landlord? He lets me use this one.” Damn, he was having to talk a lot. Far more than he ever did with a complete stranger. But he pushed on through the tightness in his throat because he didn’t want to die. “You can come take a look if you don’t believe me.”
“And go to a secondary location so you can murder me? No thanks,” she said.
Right. But you’re the one with a murder weapon.
“It’s late,” he said.
“No shit.”
“I mean, why are you here so late at night?” he asked.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“Okay.”
She still hadn’t lowered the crossbow. And her arms weren’t even shaking. She squinted at him.
“Why are you here so late? If you’re really just working? Can’t you blacksmith during the day? If you aren’t up to something shady?”
Something shady? Sharp sparkles flashed across the back of his scalp. This woman just appears with a weapon in one of his few safe spaces, and he’s the one who’s up to something shady?
“ ’Scuse me?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “Most people do their jobs during the day. Why are you here so late at night?”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” Mo growled, his annoyance diminishing his fear. “But I’m a mechanic. Run my auto shop during the day.”
She stared at him. The crossbow was still pointed at his face. He wished he was wearing his welding helmet so that his face was protected, but then he’d probably look even more threatening. Besides, even if he’d had a helmet on, she could still shoot him in the chest.
“And?” she asked.
“And?” he asked back.
“You weren’t going to say anything else?”
“Uh . . . no. I told you. I came to wash my hands. You drew attention to yourself.”
Her dark eyes went wide, and the crossbow wavered then fixed on him again.
“Excuse me?” she asked. “You trespassed in my—”
“No one’s been here for nearly a year. Arnie said he’s been trying to get in touch with you for months. He was going to have to do something with all your—”
“Not mine—” Her arms went slack, and the arrow pointed at the ground. The woman seemed to deflate completely. Mo was happy to see that he was no longer perceived as a threat, but the transition was far too brutal. A completely different person was standing in front of him all of a sudden. Both of her shoulders were slumped, and she turned slightly away from him, her face a little toward the wall.
“Arnie doesn’t have to worry about all the stuff. I’m loading up what I can tonight.” She looked back at Mo, assessing him differently this time. “Sounds like you all are friends. Let him know my parents got all of his messages. He’ll be paid for the back rent. My sister didn’t exactly have an estate, but our parents did have a life insurance policy on her. Arnie’ll get his precious money,” she spat. She turned her back on Mo and walked away down the hall.
At home, Mo opened the door of the microwave with one second left on the timer. The beep on this one set his teeth on edge. He’d been vacillating between buying a new one and just putting up with the sound even though it stressed him out right before eating. Getting a new one would be wasteful, and that bothered him, but so did the fact that he had to stand next to the machine to make sure the sound didn’t set him off. He sighed. He was able to acclimate himself to some sounds, but not others. And the ones he couldn’t handle forced him to take burdensome extra steps, to spend his limited energy on them. Like so many other types of stimuli.
Minimizing or Managing Strong Sensory and Emotional Stimuli: The Full and Complete Story of My Life.
Taking out his leftover soup, he stirred it carefully, resetting the timer to zero. He was trying not to think about the woman again. The corrosive fear that had bathed his muscles had abated enough for him to eat. At the table, where he’d arranged his placemat, napkin, and sparkling water, he stirred his soup again, telling himself to stop thinking about her. She’d threatened him with a crossbow for chrissakes. But then, in a few short words, she’d told him part of why she had: grief. Her sister had died, and the woman had been there, clearing out the space, dealing with her sister’s things on her own.
Presumably, she’d been holding back her feelings. Mo hadn’t seen any signs that the woman had been crying. But she’d been alone there in the night. Maybe in a place with which she’s unfamiliar. She heard noises, someone coming in. And she grabbed a weapon to protect herself.
But why a crossbow? Was it her sister’s?
After running a hand down his beard, he leaned over and started eating his soup, going over the encounter in his mind. It was interesting that she didn’t hide. Mo didn’t know she was there until she was right on top of him. She didn’t wait for danger to find her; she went out and faced it.
Copyright © 2025 by Gia De Cadenet. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
