The door slammed shut behind Tony with a thunderous bang. Top in hand, he staggered backward, leaning hard against the frame. For a moment, he couldn't move—frozen, stunned, breath ragged. Adrenaline surged through his veins like wildfire, burning away reason. His mind was chaos, thoughts ricocheting like pinballs in a broken machine.
With a groan, he dropped to the floor, clutching his side. Pain flared hot and sharp down his left ribcage—it felt like he'd been slammed by a truck. He peeled up his shirt, expecting blood. Just a graze, but deep enough to burn. The bullet had kissed his flesh during the struggle, leaving a raw, pulped welt behind.
Sirens screamed in the distance—close. Too close. The cops were coming.
Tony shot to his feet, panicked. He dropped his top by the door and bolted to his room, flinging open the drawer beside the bed. His hands shook as he grabbed a bottle of aspirin, popped several pills into his mouth—he didn't count—then rushed to the kitchen and downed them with a full glass of water. His reflection in the faucet looked pale and hunted.
Back in the bedroom, he crept to the window overlooking Judy's apartment. His stomach twisted. Red and blue lights strobed against the night. One cruiser. Then two. Then more. Cops were swarming the block like ants on sugar.
His heart pounded in his chest like a war drum. Guilt crashed over him. Anger followed. What had he done? Why hadn't he called someone—called the cops? Or warned Judy?
He watched, helpless, as the police cordoned off the house with yellow tape. Judy's place was now a crime scene.
Was he in the clear?
He forced himself to breathe. At least I wiped my prints, he thought. A small relief—but fleeting.
Then dread crept in.
Did anyone see me go in? His eyes darted to the street. He rubbed his thigh nervously—and froze. Something solid.
He shoved his hands into his pockets.
No.
Two diamond earrings dropped to the floor.
His stomach turned. Cold sweat slicked his neck.
He'd forgotten to ditch the earrings. Judy's earrings. Proof. Evidence. Damn it. He staggered back, dizzy, bile rising in his throat.
Outside, the cops huddled in tense conversation, trying to piece the scene together. Then a white van pulled up, and from it stepped a broad-shouldered figure in a worn Stetson.
Tony's blood turned to ice.
Sheriff Bradley.
He recognized him immediately—the same man he'd nearly run into at the corner store last week, buying cheap liquor and groceries.
And now he was here.
Across the street, in Judy's house, Greg lay dead in a pool of blood.
Tony backed away from the window, every nerve screaming: Run. But run where? He knew no one in this godforsaken city. No family. No friends. No connections—except Roach and Greg.
And Greg was dead. Killed by his own hand.
His chest tightened. He couldn't bolt now. That would only raise suspicion. So he sank onto the edge of the bed, hands trembling, thoughts spiraling into chaos. Outside, the rain began to fall—soft at first, then pounding against the window like gunfire.
The room darkened, but the diamonds—those cursed earrings—still shimmered on the bed, throwing scattered reflections across the walls like some twisted disco of guilt. He stared at them, hating the way they sparkled. Hating himself for keeping them.
He had to return them. But how?
When night fell, maybe—maybe—he could sneak into Judy's house and put them back. But where? Where exactly had Greg stolen them from? Tony had no idea. And besides, breaking into Judy's place? That was suicide.
His pulse quickened. The apartment was barely livable—no furniture in the living room, barely any food in the kitchen. He was down to his last few bucks. No job. No backup plan. He'd been surviving hand to mouth for as long as he could remember.
But there was a flicker of light in the darkness: the job interview next week at the shipping company. He was sure he'd get it—he had a good relationship with the owner Mr stones Maybe that would be his way out. A fresh start.
But that was next week.
Right now, he needed to stay invisible. Stay alive.
He made up his mind. Going back to Judy's place was off the table. Too risky. He'd hold on to the earrings—for now. Let the heat die down. Then, when the time was right, he'd sell them. Get enough cash to turn things around. Maybe leave the city for good.
But until then…
The door slammed shut behind Tony with a thunderous bang. Top in hand, he staggered backward, leaning hard against the frame. For a moment, he couldn't move—frozen, stunned, breath ragged. Adrenaline surged through his veins like wildfire, burning away reason. His mind was chaos, thoughts ricocheting like pinballs in a broken machine.
With a groan, he dropped to the floor, clutching his side. Pain flared hot and sharp down his left ribcage—it felt like he'd been slammed by a truck. He peeled up his shirt, expecting blood. Just a graze, but deep enough to burn. The bullet had kissed his flesh during the struggle, leaving a raw, pulped welt behind.
Sirens screamed in the distance—close. Too close. The cops were coming.
Tony shot to his feet, panicked. He dropped his top by the door and bolted to his room, flinging open the drawer beside the bed. His hands shook as he grabbed a bottle of aspirin, popped several pills into his mouth—he didn't count—then rushed to the kitchen and downed them with a full glass of water. His reflection in the faucet looked pale and hunted.
Back in the bedroom, he crept to the window overlooking Judy's apartment. His stomach twisted. Red and blue lights strobed against the night. One cruiser. Then two. Then more. Cops were swarming the block like ants on sugar.
His heart pounded in his chest like a war drum. Guilt crashed over him. Anger followed. What had he done? Why hadn't he called someone—called the cops? Or warned Judy?
He watched, helpless, as the police cordoned off the house with yellow tape. Judy's place was now a crime scene.
Was he in the clear?
He forced himself to breathe. At least I wiped my prints, he thought. A small relief—but fleeting.
Then dread crept in.
Did anyone see me go in? His eyes darted to the street. He rubbed his thigh nervously—and froze. Something solid.
He shoved his hands into his pockets.
No.
Two diamond earrings dropped to the floor.
His stomach turned. Cold sweat slicked his neck.
He'd forgotten to ditch the earrings. Judy's earrings. Proof. Evidence. Damn it. He staggered back, dizzy, bile rising in his throat.
Outside, the cops huddled in tense conversation, trying to piece the scene together. Then a white van pulled up, and from it stepped a broad-shouldered figure in a worn Stetson.
Tony's blood turned to ice.
Sheriff Bradley.
He recognized him immediately—the same man he'd nearly run into at the corner store last week, buying cheap liquor and groceries.
And now he was here.
Across the street, in Judy's house, Greg lay dead in a pool of blood.
Tony backed away from the window, every nerve screaming: Run. But run where? He knew no one in this godforsaken city. No family. No friends. No connections—except Roach and Greg.
And Greg was dead. Killed by his own hand.
His chest tightened. He couldn't bolt now. That would only raise suspicion. So he sank onto the edge of the bed, hands trembling, thoughts spiraling into chaos. Outside, the rain began to fall—soft at first, then pounding against the window like gunfire.
The room darkened, but the diamonds—those cursed earrings—still shimmered on the bed, throwing scattered reflections across the walls like some twisted disco of guilt. He stared at them, hating the way they sparkled. Hating himself for keeping them.
He had to return them. But how?
When night fell, maybe—maybe—he could sneak into Judy's house and put them back. But where? Where exactly had Greg stolen them from? Tony had no idea. And besides, breaking into Judy's place? That was suicide.
His pulse quickened. The apartment was barely livable—no furniture in the living room, barely any food in the kitchen. He was down to his last few bucks. No job. No backup plan. He'd been surviving hand to mouth for as long as he could remember.
But there was a flicker of light in the darkness: the job interview next week at the shipping company. He was sure he'd get it—he had a good relationship with the owner Mr stones Maybe that would be his way out. A fresh start.
But that was next week.
Right now, he needed to stay invisible. Stay alive.
He made up his mind. Going back to Judy's place was off the table. Too risky. He'd hold on to the earrings—for now. Let the heat die down. Then, when the time was right, he'd sell them. Get enough cash to turn things around. Maybe leave the city for good.
But until then…
It was gettingg dark. The time was 6:27 p.m. He hadn't had any rest since it happened. He needed a drink.
Tony glanced out the window again—the number of cruisers had thinned. The sheriff was gone. Only an ambulance remained, and a team was carefully loading Greg's lifeless body onto a stretcher. In a moment, they stuffed it inside and the van pulled away, its siren fading into the distance.
He turned from the window and made his way to the mini fridge, pouring himself a generous glass of whiskey. He downed it in one gulp, the liquor burning a cold, warm path down his throat. With a grateful sigh—thankful there was still enough left so he wouldn't have to leave the house—he refilled the glass and took another swig.
The alcohol began to settle in. He could feel its dulling warmth creeping through him.
Then he looked at the earrings. In one swift motion, he snatched them up and hid them beneath a loose tile in the living room—one he'd been meaning to replace for months.
He lit a cigarette and released a thick puff of smoke. For a moment, he felt nothing—just the tempting itch on his side where the bullet had grazed him. His mind went blank, soothed by the numbing haze of alcohol and nicotine.
Outside, the sun was setting, casting a vibrant orange glow across the horizon.
He sat still, thoughts swirling, wondering what he would say to the police when they eventually came knocking—questions about the burglary across the street.
Amidst that thought, his phone rang.
Roach.
He hesitated.
It rang again.
Clearing his throat, he answered.
"Hello?"