Chasing His Kickass Luna Back

Abby

I’m sitting in the sterile confines of the police station, the room buzzing with the

noise of ringing phones and chatter. I can’t help but fidget in my seat as the

detective shifts across from me, jotting notes down on a cl*pboard.

“So, you’re absolutely sure you can’t think of anyone who might want to harm

you?” the detective, an older man with a receding hairline asks, eyeing me over

a stack of papers.

“Detective, if I had enemies, I’d be the first to tell you. I swear, I really can’t think

of anyone.”

Enter title…

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He nods, scribbling something down. “Alright. But keep your eyes open. This

may just be a random targeting, but it’s certainly not an accident. Call us if you

think of something, or someone, who might shed some light on this situation.”

“I will, thank you,” I say, standing up to leave. The tension in my shoulders

eases just a bit as I make my way out of the room. This whole experience is

surreal, like some bizarre soap opera that I’ve unwittingly become the star of.

David, my landlord, is waiting for me in the hallway, his usually cheerful face

tight with concern. “Abby, how did it go?”

“Fine,” I answer with a sigh. “They’re keeping an open investigation but don’t

have any suspects yet.”

David rubs his temple. “I’ve arranged for maintenance to get started on repairs

first thing in the morning, but if you want to get a hotel room for a few days, I can

cover the lodging expenses.”

I shake my head. “No, David, that’s kind of you, but I want to go home. I want to

take care of my belongings myself.”

He looks puzzled. “Are you sure? The maintenance crew can—”

“I know, I know. But some of those things… they’re not just things, you know?

They’re pieces of me. I want to handle them.”

He nods, understanding washing over his features. “Alright, Abby. Call me if you

need anything.”

“I will,” I say, giving him a small but appreciative smile.

I make my way back to my apartment, my heart heavy with a strange blend of

relief and dread. As I walk through the door, I survey the damage. It’s like

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someone took my cozy, sunlit space and dunked it into a darkened, charred

reality.

My eyes immediately go to the walls—they’ll definitely need a new coat of paint.

And the smell of wet wood and burnt paper fills the air.

But all in all, it’s not all that bad. It could be worse; far worse.

I decide to start with the living room, carefully lifting a pile of soaked books from

the coffee table. I arrange some of the more precious ones hanging on the

backs of chairs in the kitchen, hoping that with time, the air will dry them on.

Next, I move on to the photographs over the fireplace, or rather what’s left of

them. It’s a bit heartbreaking, having to throw away some of the photographs of

happier times, but I try to cheer myself up by telling myself that I can take more

photos.

“I can do this,” I mutter to myself as I clutch a damp cloth and a bottle of cleaner.

I’m about to tackle the armchair—my favorite reading spot—and see if I can get

the blackness out of it when the doorbell suddenly rings.

I open the door, and my heart leaps straight into my throat. “Oh my god,” I gasp,

stunned.