Temi
I couldn't look Oscar in the eyes after I'd thrown myself at him like that. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, but the crushing weight of losing Tobi overwhelmed any social awkwardness I might have felt. The officer Oscar assigned to me – Williams, she'd said her name was – guided me through my front door with gentle efficiency.
"I'll be right outside, ma'am," she assured me, doing a quick sweep of my apartment before taking up her post.
The moment I was alone, my head began to throb. That familiar piercing pain that started behind my eyes and worked its way through my skull like hot needles. I stumbled to my medicine cabinet, fingers trembling as I fumbled with the childproof cap of my prescription bottle. The pills scattered across my bathroom counter, tiny white dots dancing before my tear-blurred vision.
One. Two. I swallowed them dry, gripping the edge of the sink as memories of Tobi flooded my mind. His laugh during our last coffee meet months ago. The way he'd been excitedly showing me his new photography series. How he'd promised to teach me about proper lighting techniques this weekend.
Now he was gone. Just like Kiki. Just like Ekong.
All of them. Gone.
I slid down to the cold tile floor, pulling my knees to my chest. The medication would take twenty minutes to kick in, but the pain in my head wasn't what terrified me most. It was the whispers I could hear in my mind, the accusations that grew louder with each death.
"Why are they all connected to you, Temi?"
My own voice sounded foreign in the empty bathroom. I pressed my palms against my temples, trying to think through the fog of grief and fear. Had I offended someone? Was there a moment, a conversation, an interaction I'd forgotten that could have triggered this nightmare?
I'd gone over it a thousand times. Kiki had been my friend. Ekong, my mentor. And now Tobi – sweet, talented Tobi who never had an unkind word for anyone.
The only common thread was me.
Oscar's face flashed in my mind – the way he'd held me, strong and steady, even while I felt his suspicion. He was too good at his job not to see the pattern. Part of me wanted to run to him, to tell him everything, every detail of my relationships with the victims, every strange occurrence over the past few months. But another part of me, the part that was beginning to doubt my own sanity, wondered if that would only make me look more guilty.
My phone buzzed on the floor beside me – when had I taken it out? The screen showed a text from an unknown number:
"You look troubled, Temi. Having a headache again?"
My blood turned to ice. I scrambled to my feet, nearly slipping on the bathroom tile, and rushed to the window. Officer Williams was still there, standing vigilant by her car. But someone was watching me. Someone knew about my headaches.
I wanted to scream for Officer Williams, to run back to Oscar and hide in his arms again, professional boundaries be damned. Instead, I found myself sliding down the wall next to my bedroom window, phone clutched to my chest, trying to control my breathing the way my therapist had taught me.
In. Out. In. Out.
The medication was starting to work, dulling the sharp edges of my headache, but my mind wouldn't stop racing. Every creak of the building made me jump. Every shadow seemed to hold a threat. I pulled up Oscar's contact information on my phone three times, but couldn't bring myself to call him.
What would I say? That I was scared of a text message? That someone might be watching me? That every person I cared about was dying and I didn't know if I was next or somehow responsible?
The sun was setting now, painting my walls in shades of orange and red that reminded me too much of blood. I pressed my forehead against my knees, trying to make myself as small as possible. In the growing darkness, I could almost hear Tobi's voice, could almost feel Sarah's reassuring hand on my shoulder, could almost smell Peter's coffee and Marcus's cigarettes.
But they were gone. All gone. And I was here, alone with my fear and my questions and my guilt. The only person I wanted to talk to was Oscar, but I'd already shown him too much weakness. Already made myself too vulnerable. Already crossed too many lines.
My phone buzzed again. I nearly dropped it in my haste to check the screen, but this time it was Oscar:
"Checking in. Everything okay?"
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Should I tell him about the text? About the headaches? About the growing certainty that either I was losing my mind or someone was orchestrating an elaborate nightmare with me at its center?
Instead, I typed: "I'm fine. Officer Williams is here."
Another lie to add to the growing pile of things I couldn't explain. Another secret to keep from the one person who might be able to help me. Another reason to question everything I thought I knew about myself.
Because the truth was, I wasn't fine. I wasn't fine at all. And as the last rays of sunlight faded from my walls, I wondered if I would ever be fine again.
Or if I even deserved to be.