© 2025 J. J. Hanna
I spent the whole day in that windowless room before Lucielle’s supervisor insisted they let me go home. I could give them people’s names, but I couldn’t give them any other details on their lives. That had been proven time and time again. I knew them, but I didn’t know them deeply enough to know what they were into. Lucielle should have been proof of that.
Her supervisor drove me back to my apartment. “Thank you for your help on this matter. You understand you can’t tell anyone what happened today. You took a sick day, you stayed home, you watched your favorite tv show for the millionth time. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said as the car pulled to a stop.
“Good. Failure to comply with that will result in obstruction of justice charges. It is vital that they not know we’re closing in on them.”
I nodded. I was ready to take a shower and pretend today never happened. The man stayed parked in my parking lot until I had entered my apartment and locked the door behind me. And even then, he sat and watched my building for another twenty minutes more. I think it was supposed to be comforting. It wasn’t. I went to the kitchen and flipped on the light, and then jumped out of my skin, cursing loudly. There was a man sitting at my table. A man I didn’t know. I wish my instinct was to grab a knife or a pan or something helpful. Instead, I stood there frozen.
“Hello, Amanda,” the man said, unphased by my panic.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Where were you all day? I came by earlier but you were out.”
I swallowed. Then I realized where I’d seen him before. The delivery driver. He’d kept his face hidden, but the way he carried himself was the same. There was no doubt in my mind that it was the same man. “I—” I didn’t have a good answer. He knew I wasn’t here. I’d just gotten in. The story Lucielle’s supervisor had given me wasn’t going to work here. “I was at work,” I tried.
“No,” he said. He took a calm sip of water from one of my glasses. “You weren’t.”
My survival instincts finally kicked in and I grabbed a frying pan from my stove. If I ran outside that military/agent/cop guy would probably still be there. He would probably still see me.
“Easy, Amanda,” the man said, his voice soothing. “I’m just here to talk.”
“How do you know who I am?”
“Friend of a friend.” He said it noncommittally. Lying seemed to come as easily for this man as breaking and entering. “Where were you?”
I shook my head and started backing up. “You know, I left my coat in my car. I think I better go get it.” I turned back toward the living room.
“Amanda, I think we should just talk. No need for a weapon. No need to run or cause a scene. I’m no threat to you.”
But you are a threat. I made it to the door before his arm went over my shoulder and kept me from pulling it open. “Please.” It came out more like a whimper. I’d seen my fair share of crime shows. I knew how quickly this could turn really bad.
“Where were you today? And tell me the truth.”
“It sounds insane.”
“Try me.”
“I was on a military base.”
“Why?”
“They had some questions for me.”
“About?”
“My job, of all things.”
“You’re a barista, right?”
“Yes.”
“Why were they interested in your job?”
“They wanted to know about my customers. Please let me go.”
His hands were surprisingly gentle as he guided me to the couch in the living room. He didn’t force me to sit, but he did gesture toward the chair. And now he was physically between me and the door. My mind ran through the items on my keychain, debating if any of them would work as a weapon, if anything would work as a distraction to get me outside. I was kicking myself for not carrying pepper spray on my keys. It was in my purse if I could get there. I glanced around the room quickly to get an idea of what options I had as weapons. But in my drive for minimalism I’d removed nearly all of the items I could easily use to defend myself. The broom was put away in the closet, there were no tchotchkes on the coffee table. The closest thing I had was a thick paperback book which, if I held it firmly enough and hit him with the spine, might work if I could do it without him noticing. There was a cup of pens next to the couch. Maybe if I bluffed well enough… I grabbed one and looked at him as I started fiddling with it.
“Do you mind if I vape?”
“It’s your house.”
“I prefer to open a window.”
“Who’s outside, Amanda?”
I swallowed. How did he do that? How did he seem to know what I was thinking before I even acted?
“Vape or don’t vape. But the windows stay closed.”
I set the pen down.
His gaze was steady, watching me as if he could see my thoughts themselves if only he looked hard enough. “What were they asking you about your customers?”
“They just wanted to know who people were and what I knew about them. That’s all, I swear.”
“Did they focus on any customers in particular?”
“A few seemed to spark their interest.”
“Who? I’d like their names please.”
I couldn’t put my finger on what it was, but the way he held himself, the way he composed himself and kept the questions coming seemed to compel me to answer him. It wasn’t exactly that I wanted to. And as scared as I was, he did seem genuine in not wanting to hurt me. But it felt like the correct response to answer him as quickly, as concisely, and as accurately as I could.
I had always enjoyed watching cop shows to unwind from a long night, and I always found myself thinking that in the same situation, I would be more clever or more brave or more willing to fight back against an aggressor. I’m disappointed to say that when faced with my own version of it, I wished I had a script that could tell me the right moment to scream or make a run for it. Because it was very obvious to me that I was going to sit here and answer his questions until he had no more questions.
“George, Adam, and Olivia,” I said. I hated myself as I said it. What if this man went to them next?
“Is that all they wanted? First names?”
“That’s all I could give them. They didn’t seem to want their coffee orders.”
The man considered me for a moment, giving me a chance to focus on his face. It was the first time I’d seen him clearly. The kitchen had been dark, then he’d been behind me, and then I’d been too distracted. But now—now I could see him. I didn’t know him. Something in me had hoped I would recognize him. Getting over that shock, I worked to memorize his face so I could sit with a sketch artist or describe him to my escort home. At first I’d been annoyed that he’d stayed. Now I wished he’d come up here and bust down the door.
This man had a full head of gray hair, but the wrinkles on his face and the strength in his body seemed to place him between fifty and sixty. His forehead was short, and his eyebrows hung heavily over his eyes. His face was rather rectangular.
Before I could finish my assessment, he abruptly straightened up. “Well Amanada. This has been…” He didn’t finish that thought. “Good luck.” Then he left. He let himself out of my apartment and he just left.
I sat watching the door for a long time, half expecting him to come back in. No threats. No posturing. No insisting that I not tell anyone. I went to the balcony and opened my window, looking out at the parking lot. My escort’s car was gone. I went to my purse and fished my phone out, hovering over the buttons for a moment as I realized I didn’t know who I was supposed to call. The police? Lucielle? Someone else? No one had given me a phone number. The escort said to act like nothing had happened. But this… This wasn’t nothing. And as strange as it was to spend a day in a black site, at least I’d felt safe there. Now I needed help and I had no idea where to turn.
If I called the police and told them someone broke into my house, they’d ask me if I knew why and I’d have to lie to them. If I didn’t call the police, he got away with it. He hadn’t been wearing gloves. He’d drank from one of my cups. There were fingerprints and DNA evidence to collect and no one to call who I could easily convince to come over, at least no one I wouldn’t need to lie to.
I sat on the couch again, left the call screen, and opened Google. How long does DNA evidence stay in a glass? As I typed it I felt insane. Answers ranged from two weeks to two years if stored properly.
I didn’t have a way to store it properly.
Unless… Back to Google I went. It seemed the proper temperature to store DNA at was 4ºC, which another couple of quick Google searches told me was the average temperature a fridge should be to keep food safe to eat.
I dug through my pantry until I found a gallon sized bag and carefully put his glass in the bag. I wasn’t sure if I should keep the remaining water or not, so I did, and then stuck it in my fridge.
I really must be insane. How the hell am I supposed to get this to the police? Or to anyone? I guess I have six months now assuming any of that is right. I don’t want to wait six months.
As the shock of the day slowly wore off, I finally broke down and cried. Then I called my friend. She picked up quickly. “Hey! How’s it going?” Her voice was comforting, friendly, and familiar.
“Not good,” I admitted. “I’ve had the weirdest day. Can I come over?”
“Of course.” There was no hesitation in her voice. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I’m not sure I should. At least, not yet. But I don’t really want to be alone right now.”
“Do you want me to come to you?”
“No, I’ll come to you if that’s okay.”
“Yeah, absolutely.”
She stayed on the line with me telling me about her very normal day until I arrived at her house. I could see her concern when she answered her door, but she didn’t push me to talk about it. I fell asleep that night on her couch cuddling her dog.
This story, segments of this story, and ideas from this story are not to be duplicated or replicated in anyway. This content belongs to J. J. Hanna alone.
Please note: This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real life events is unintended by the author.
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J. J. Hanna is a writer and reader from Colorado. She loves suspense stories above all else, and is currently working on a debut novel. When she’s not writing, you can find her making YouTube videos and Online Courses about the publishing industry. Go find her on social media @authorjjhanna and @jjhannaacademy to keep track of her most recent reads, current adventures, and to get the most up-to-date news on all things publishing. She also runs a freelance marketing business to help authors achieve their own goals. Learn more or hire her at Hanna Book Solutions.
J. J. Hanna, Author 