In the end, I don’t know her, she doesn’t know me, yet I’m here. Because I need a release from this itch under my skin...because I think of her—often. More than I want. More than I should. Maybe I like her because I’m insane.

That sounds like me.

The house wasn’t what I expected. It’s in an older part of Louisville. Built easily over a hundred years ago. Small. Stone. Like a cottage, but stuck in a neighborhood. It has a cement porch that’s covered by a roof. A swing is off to the right. Colorful wind chimes clank together in the summer breeze. Flowers are planted along the shrubs and are in flower boxes attached to the railing. The front yard is full of green grass. No weeds. Nicely manicured.

The front steps are covered by a wooden ramp. The kind Dad built for his father when he broke his hip. The place definitely screams drug den.

The clock on the truck’s radio flips to 2:45. I crack open the door and cross the street. Farther down, a car passes an intersection, but other than that, there couldn’t be a quieter place. Birds and boring. Almost like being back home.

I’m fast as I move to the back and in the backyard a red birdhouse hangs from a branch heavy with apples. Along with leaves, sticks and shed feathers, there’s a key and that key fits in the back door. It clicks open and the scent of chicken drifts into my nose. My stomach grumbles and I want to kick myself for missing a meal, but I was caught up in driving. Caught up in figuring out Abby.

I enter a kitchen and it’s yellow—almost orange. It’s cozy. Maybe three people could fit in it. There’s a stove, a sink, not even a dishwasher. The refrigerator’s covered in pictures and most of them are of a young girl and as I step closer, my eyes narrow. The girl has long brown hair, a glint in her eye and a devilish grin. Holy hell—is that Abby?

“Can I help you?”

I spin, and a black woman with long curly hair pulled back at the nape of her neck walks in. She assesses me like she’s not sure whether to welcome me or try to put me in a sleeper hold.

“Abby sent me,” I say.

She eyes me warily then places a tray of half-eaten food on the counter. “Abby’s usually here by now. Is she delayed?”

“You can say that.” I glance out the back door and wonder if I should bolt. This lady is too calm. This situation too weird. “I need to go upstairs.”

She checks her watch. It’s now 2:50. “If Abby came rolling in this late she would, too. I’ll be in the living room.”

The lady leaves and not knowing what else to do, I follow, but at a distance. The area between my muscles and skin vibrates and I can’t tell if it’s my need to feel an adrenaline rush or if it’s because I’m in the opening scene of a horror flick.

The next room is a dining room. Wooden floors, wooden table, a brown braided rug underneath, and white lace curtains over the windows. To the left is a staircase and the woman enters another room that’s straight ahead. On the china hutch is a screwdriver. This game all feels staged and I don’t like the sinking sensation it creates, like Abby somehow knew she wouldn’t return.

Continuing the messed-up scavenger hunt, I grab the screwdriver. The points tally in my mind. Enter the house without being shot, one point. Finding the screwdriver, three. Does the pissed-off serial killer enter on level two? It’s no wonder she gave this task to me. I’m the only one she knows that’s this insane.

On the second floor, the door’s closed to the first room. The next is the bathroom.

I check down the hall. No sound of anyone coming. No sound of anyone else upstairs. I enter and feel like I’ve stepped into a time warp. Small tiled bathroom. A medicine cabinet that sticks out from the wall. In fact the entire house feels stuck in another era, circa 1930-something and/or before.

Next to the claw-foot tub is a shelf holding towels. I push it out of the way and feel along the seam of the wallpaper. A slight pull and there’s a part of me that’s in awe over the Velcro that kept the paper in place. Using the screwdriver, I undo the door and open it to find cash in an envelope. So much that my gut twists. So much that the girl I know as Abby seems further away.

I pick the envelope up and it’s a double jab to the face. Underneath is a gallon resealable bag that contains smaller zip bags and inside those are pot.

I lower my head and attempt to swallow down the disgust and disappointment. Somehow, I’d managed to compartmentalize Abby the girl who challenges me from the drug dealer. Screw that—I chose to ignore it. To be aware, but consciously staying unaware.

Earlier, a part of me desired to kick Isaiah in the head for how he talked about Abby, but now I respect him. He doesn’t ignore the parts of Abby he can’t stand, he accepts her and still has her back. And he was being her friend because he was questioning me—questioning my allegiance.

I fall back on my ass. “Why do you do this, Abby?”

Besides the air conditioner kicking on, there’s no response. I snatch the envelope, ignore how thick it is, and work to put everything back in place. Abby said I’d know what to do with the envelope. I don’t. I understand nothing of her world.

Rage pushes out any confusion or hurt. Isaiah has her back, not me. He should be the one doing this, and then my face heats. I am a fool. Isaiah would have refused. He won’t cross over into her world, but she knew she could play me. Well, fuck that.

I bound down the stairs, angry at Abby, angry at myself. Hate pulsating through my veins. I cut into the living room and as I open my mouth to tell this woman that Abby can fix her own damn problems, I whiplash as if I’d smacked headfirst into a wall.