F O U R

...Z O H R A...

I gasp, my body jerking to the left as I awaken from another nightmare. My breath shakes like a stutter, my hands trembling as a cold shiver runs down my spine. Winter's chill and the early morning hour remind me that Detective Gordon hasn't arrived yet. I'm unsure which I anticipate more.

I screw my eyelids shut, banishing any lingering fatigue. The thin blanket offers little warmth, and my tongue aches for a drop of water. Last night, I stayed awake, hoping for Gordon's visit. His kindness, though brief, has meant more to me than my father's neglect.

I blink, and the world comes back into focus. The lights are off, and the curtains are slightly ajar, revealing a sun that shines dimly, like a saddened eye. It's unsettling to feel a glimmer of peace.

At first, I thought I was upset about having no family after my father's imprisonment. But now, I doubt my sadness. I feel... happy at the revelation. What if they were like him?

My wounds are still healing, and I have one week of bed rest left before I'm sent to a foster home. The young female doctor's voice startles me. "So you're an early bird, I see?" she asks, taking a seat beside me.

I smile slightly, and she nods toward the cabinet next to me. "So, what are we reading today?" I'm perplexed, but then I see the letter. A small piece of paper that fills me with unease.

My eyes dart back to the nurse, and I shake my head. She asks if she can open it, her jade eyes sparkling with curiosity. I hesitate, unsure, and she extends her arm, pushing the note toward me.

If I could speak, I'd tell her I don't want it. But her persistence makes me waver. She suggests it could be from someone important, but her eyes widen in shock as she reads the contents. She screams, and the paper falls into my lap.

My heart races as I absorb what happened. A sour, metallic taste fills my mouth. My hands shake as I reach for the paper, my fingertips warm against its surface. But they're also wet and frozen, my heart heavy in my chest.

The crimson liquid on the paper alarms me, and I shoot back against the pillows, a small squeak escaping my throat. The feeding tube from yesterday reduces my ability to scream. There's blood on the paper.

My eyes widen as I open it hesitantly. Adrenaline rushes through my veins, and my gut punches with grief and fear as I read the handwritten words:

"Found you, little dove."

...•••...

My fingers twist into the thick, dark strands of my hair, the urge to tear it out by the roots overwhelming. The silence is oppressive, punctuated only by the soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. Thirty-six minutes, twenty-one seconds have ticked by since I entered this sterile room, the walls closing in on me like a vise.

I’ve continually replayed the words written on the paper as though my mind were a broken record.

Shock settles in my stomach as the reality of the situation begins to sink in—I might just have a stalker…

The windows are no help—no air is consumed by my lungs.

The door, a thin barrier between me and the chaos that rages outside, seems to tremble with the weight of a thousand unspoken secrets. The hospital, with its antiseptic smell and sterile corridors, still lingers in my mind, the memory of blood on my fingertips a stark reminder of the events that brought me here.

Gordon's absence is a palpable thing, a void that echoes through the room like a scream. But his office, with its dark wood and twisted oak scent, is a sanctuary, a refuge from the turmoil that rages outside.

My feet move of their own accord, drawn to the desk like a moth to flame. The chair, with its wheels and curved back, seems to whisper secrets in my ear, its comfort a siren's call. I sit, my fingers tracing the armrest, the wood smooth beneath my touch.

The frames on the desk, a collage of memories and moments, seem to hold a thousand stories, each one a thread in the tapestry of Gordon's life. I reach out, my fingers brushing against the glass, the image within a punch to the gut.

The girl in the picture, her eyes bright and laughing, her hair a wild tangle of curls, is a mirror image of me, a doppelganger from a life I've never known. My breath catches, my heart stuttering like a drumbeat in my chest.

And then, Gordon's voice, low and husky, cuts through the silence, a gentle rebuke that sends shivers down my spine. "Z-Zohra, what are you doing?" he asks, his eyes narrowing, his gaze piercing.

I open my mouth, but the words die on my lips, lost in the void of my own making. My hands flutter, a bird in flight, as I struggle to find my voice, to speak the words that will set me free.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to intrude, ” I babble out quickly—hoping that it’ll redeem me from my actions. Although I’ve placed the frame back in its respective place—I could never get the picture of the girls face out of my mind.

Gordon's cheeks flush with a gentle warmth as he speaks, his words dripping with kindness. "No, no, it's fine. I just didn't expect to see you there." I nod, my arms wrapping around myself like a shroud, seeking comfort in the cold. His chuckle is a soft, soothing sound, and his eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, the lines etched on his face a testament to his warmth.

"Sorry, it's Winter, and I don't have any blankets in my office," he jokes, his voice a gentle tease. The words are a small, endearing gesture, and I sense a kindness in his tone, a promise of protection. His gaze locks onto mine, and I feel a spark of connection, a sense of understanding that goes beyond words.

"Zohra, I have to tell you something," he says, his voice gentle but laced with a hint of unease. "You'll need to stay at an orphanage tonight...until I can arrange for you to stay with me." The words hang in the air like a promise, a lifeline thrown into the darkness.

I nod, my silence a testament to my uncertainty. An orphanage, a place where the forgotten and lost souls linger, feels like a temporary refuge, a place to hide from the world. Gordon's smile is a reassuring gesture, his eyes warm with concern, his presence a beacon of hope in the darkness.

As we step out of the office, chaos erupts around us, the calm shattered by the storm. A woman with piercing blue eyes and a fiery demeanor confronts Gordon, her words spilling out in a passionate torrent. "Gordon, you need to explain what's going on! You can't just bring the prime suspect in our old case into the department, claiming she's a victim because of some blood on a piece of paper! This is not a circus, get me answers and fix this mess before you put all of us in jeopardy!"

Her gaze turns to me, her eyes narrowing as she takes in my appearance, her expression a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. "H-hi," I stammer, my voice barely audible, a whispered secret in the storm.

Gordon's voice cuts through the tension, a gentle reminder of my newfound voice. "You're talking again." The words are a promise, a testament to my strength. "Don't mind her, she's just worried," Gordon says, his eyes never leaving mine, his gaze a lifeline in the chaos.

I sense a kindness in his words, a promise of protection, a shelter from the storm. My voice trembles as I ask, "Who's the girl in the picture, Gordon?" His eyes soften, his expression a mixture of sadness and nostalgia, a hint of a story untold.

"What?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, a gentle probe into the darkness. I flinch, my heart racing out of control, but Gordon's gentle tone calms me, his presence a soothing balm.

For a moment I forget that I’m somewhat safe—in an area where no hand will be raised if I speak out of turn or do something thought to be inappropriate by my looker.

His eyes lock onto mine, again.

And then, chaos erupts, a loud explosion rocking the department, the sound shattering the calm. Gordon's voice booms through the chaos, "Get Zohra out of the building—now!"

My feet and legs buckle beneath me as I rock with the building, hearing the sudden burst of voices shouting over one another.

Shrill screams of terror echoes throughout the department as Gordon grabs onto my shoulders—securing me from the possible debris.

Many other arms wrap themselves around me, obeying Gordon’s orders.

Their weight pushes against my body in a persuasive manner—pushing me toward the exit as they converse with eachother.

“Keep her head down—if it’s the mafia then the media will be onto this like fucking flies!” Gordon exclaims wildly and my head perks up in alarm.

Mafia? What?

Before I can properly blink away his words—my eyes are embraced by the sunlight—giving a false sense of protection to its victims.

“G-gordon—what’s happening?” My voice strains even against my own ears and I can feel my vocal chords ripping from the inside as I struggle to speak over the noise.

“Nothing—just keep your head down ‘til we’re in the car!” He shouts urgently.

My heart clenches at the tone before I’m gently shoved into the front seat of the familiar car.

The fabric of the seat feels rough against my smooth skin—and the scent of blueberries are amusing to my senses.

Gordon emerges in the other seat.

I glance out of the front window and immediately notice the enormous smoke cloud forming a polluted gray color.

“What happened?” I ask him—looking as though he were the only one who could answer me.

The engine vibrates and my body experiences a rush of heat as the car begins to accelerate forward—my hands instinctively clutching onto the side of the seat.

My breath hitches in my throat and I can hear the sounds of Gordon’s uneasy, heavy and irregular patterns of breath as he turns the steering wheel.

He shakes his head. “Zohra…there’s a lot of things that you don’t know…and I’ve kept it from you for your own good,” he exhales, a bit more calm than before.

“What do you mean,” my voice cracks as I turn my full body toward him—making him aware of the suspicion that he makes me develop, “what have you kept from me…and why?”

I question—my eyes fixated on him—burning holes into the side of his head.

“Look…no offense—but I think it’s just better if you don’t know…yet,” he states matter-of-factly, licking his lips and then proceeding to bite them.

He might be deep in thought. He might be hesitant to tell me.

I think I deserve to know if someone is stalking me.

The thought pops into my head like the new word of freedom into my vocabulary.

“I don’t understand…the letter at the hospital was obviously meant for me—”

“Zohra, you don’t know that. You don’t even know what was written on the note! It could’ve been for me—because I’m holding you in my protection and you’re a suspect in my—fuck I’ve already said too much,” he inhaled deeply as the cat comes to a stop.

I don’t bother looking outside—Gordon has already stolen too much of my attention.

What does he mean‘you don’t even know’? Of course I know—I’m the one who opened the…unless he doesn’t know that…

Since when am I a suspect? And why? How am I a suspect? Why would the note be for him?

My thoughts circle in my head with uncertainty.

Gordon sits with his eyes screwed tightly shut—irritated by the situation at hand.

“Please…you need to tell me. I am the one in jeopardy here! I read the letter and it said—” “You read the letter?” He asked in shock.

I nodded, hoping that it’ll give me the bargaining chip to negotiate.

“I will tell you what the letter said…if you tell me how I am even connected to any of your business or case or whatever. I don’t understand how I’m the suspect when I’ve done nothing wrong? I also don’t understand why there’s ‘mafia’ after me…”

I trail off, after I’ve finished ranting.

Gordon stares at me with a contemplative expression, taking my deal into consideration. He leans forward toward my face and I’m so startled my his actions that I freeze in place.

My body vibrates with an uneasy tension—realizing that I’ve never had a guy—or man—or any form of masculine presence in such close proximity—besides my father, that is.

“This is serious, Zohra. Your life is at risk—didn’t you see the bombing earlier?” He persists.

I narrow my eyes into thin slits and then look away from him—breathing heavily at the reasoning he offers.

“How can I be in trouble? What was the bombing even for?” I bellow frustratedly.

Gordon sighs deeply—the lines on his sweaty forehead increasing as he opens the door and gets out of the car, leaving me with my thoughts.

I watch Gordon through the car window and only now realize that he’s taken me to his home.

“Dammit—” I curse silently underneath my breath—hoping that all of this would just be explained to me.

A small and consistent beeping sound comes from somewhere in the car—it must be an alarm of some sort. Perhaps even an indicator.

I quickly re-enact his actions and exit the car, feeling the thick and moist grass beneath my shoes.

Hospital clothing weren’t the best—but it was better than walking around naked.

Gordon stands on his front porch, waiting for me.

The air is thick with the nostalgic scent of grass—wet grass. The type that makes you nauseatingly sick.

It’s only then that I notice the cologne radiating from Gordon—incredibly contrasting to the pungent smell of the grass.

He gestures for me to come inside of the small house.

His eyes look anywhere but at my own. A polite nod is all that I needed inorder to make myself comfortable on the chair.

I wish that I could say the day was amazing..but it was awful.

The inside of the house is quite small—but it’s sufficient for one person.

The walls are decorated with oakwood and brick. The main room is busy with tables and chairs—papers sprawled onto the desks revealing files of…me?

Gordon quickly moves to close them before I can peer any more.

“Sorry I didn’t clean up—uh, I wasn’t expecting visitors…” he speaks firmly, trying to distract my mind from what I’d just seen.

“So what now?” I question—referring to this entire, messy conundrum that I’m suddenly involved in.

No—sorry—that I’m suddenly the center piece of.

He pouts, rolling on his heels and clenching his jaw. “Uhm—well…now you’re basically under my protection. But I can’t have you stay here just yet…” he chuckles silently.

“Why not?” The question hangs in the air…for a few moments before it’s answered.

“Let’s just say that—once I allow you to stay here, it means that you basically…are under my custody. And I can’t have you under my custody just yet because a home inspector and child psychologist has to first approve of my household status.” He blurts—some lines sounding incoherent to me.

“I…I don’t understand,” I peer up at him and notice that he rubs his finger against his chin—“does that mean that you first need to have your home checked for any dangers to my being?” I continue.

His eyes lights up like a spark—and he nods in approval, almost as though I’ve explained it better than he attempted to do before.

A small breath of relief leaves my lips.

“Can…can I sleep?” I stutter, hoping that I’m not invading his personal space.

He jerks forward and smiles like he’s had a moment of realization. “Yes, of course you can! Do you want the bed or the…couch?” His voice trails off as he mentions the couch—suggesting that it might not be the most comfortable place to sleep.

I shrug—not really caring where I’m sleeping. In my father’s house…I slept on the floor.

This was a privilege.

He quickly grips my hand and I’m startled by the warmth.

He then continues to lead me to what I assume to be the bedroom.

As we enter the room—I notice the small lights covering the ceiling, with light pink LEDs around the edge of the walls.

This must have been a girls room. I frown—realizing that there are no girls in Gordon’s house.

Then my mind traces back to the girl in the picture in his office. But where is she now?

A small bed, with soft appearing cushions and thick pink duvets stand in the middle of the room.

A small smile embraces my face as I look around at the many posters on the walls—Sofia the first; Barbie; Toy Story…

I then spin on my heels and smile at Gordon, noticing the glances he steals every five seconds.

“Do you like it?” He probes.

Warmth creeps into my cheeks as I curl my lips up and nod.

“Yes—thanks. For all of this…and for saving me on numerous accounts…” I trail—thinking about all of the times he’s come to my aid—even before I knew him a bit better like I do now.

He nods in acknowledgment before leaving me alone with my thoughts and the need to sleep.

••••

I gasp as thick coats of sweat emerge on my forehead. The same recurring nightmare…

I look outside the window of my fathers car, his face is blurred out—unrecognizable. The girl sits next to me—she smiles tentatively, hoping to get my attention.

I know her…but I don’t. Her eyes are familiar. Her lips, her face, her movements.

She hugs me tightly and warmth embrace my soul. “Jhene, do you still have that feather?” She whispers in my ear mischievously.

I nod and watch as she gestures to the man in the front seat. Without a second guess—or first for that matter—I tickle him in the ear, enjoying the sight of his eyes crinkling with joy.

But before the joy settles—it’s replaced with darkness and pain as a massive truck hits the side of the car.

All I see is blood. Blood on my hands. Blood on her body. Blood on his body.

Blood on my hands.

Another man—who appears to have driven the truck—pulls out a gun, pointing it at me—repeating the question: “Are you Jhene Louvre?”

No matter how hard I try—the vision never escapes my mind.

It’s like a bleeding reality. I’ve never experienced it—not that I can remember, but yet the faces feel so familar and the incident feels so real that it’s hard to differentiate between it being a dream or memory…

But I can’t recall a time where I was with any strange in a car.

As far as I know—I have an abusive father. I don’t know the man in the drivers seat in my dream.

And I most certainly don’t know anyone by the name of: Jhene…

Yet the dreams seem to ignite a pit of despair like no other. So familiar but so incredibly unrecognizable it’s…nauseating.

I breathe out—hoping to clean the dream from my mind, and step out of the warm duvets and onto the cold floor.

A shrill of piercing cold jolts through my body like a loud scream echoing in my eardrums.

I bite back a gasp of surprise and keep walking despite my cold shivers.

The kitchen lights are off and the only light provided is that of the moon through the kitchen windows.

The couch sits in the middle of the television room which attaches to the kitchen. There I know Gordon sleeps—peacefully.

A small ring erupts in my ears against the silence. It’s so soft that it’s deafening.

The thump of footsteps are loud against the walls of the house—echoing off the surface and pulling me into concentration—especially because they’re not my footsteps

I abruptly move my eyes toward the door, and notice nothing.

But in the corner of my eye, there’s a shadow in the window…actually a silhouette.

My lungs catch my breath and my body instinctively stops moving. Goosebumps settle on my skin and I can feel it—it’s eyes are fixated on me.

My mind shifts to a panic—I’m conflicted as to what to do. Do I run? Do I hide? Do I move? Do I even attempt to breathe?

The silhouette stands unmoving, waiting for me to perhaps make a move…

I flinch as the thing moves, tilting its head slightly to the side and doing what I assume to be: scanning me.

I breathe heavily and irregularly, seeing my breath in the formation of a misty cloud.

The silhoutte then walks closer—toward the window—the huge window, that exposes every curve of my insecurity and every shape of my secrets—and puts its hand on the surface of the glass.

I shouldn’t and I know this—but I reluctantly walk forward, toward the same direction and breathe against the glass from the inside.

I know I’m stupid for this; but I proceed to lift my right hand and shakily place it on the designated parallel spot that mirrors it’s touch.

For a moment I’m convinced I can see a face. A masculine face—with a jawline sharper than the sharpest blade I’ve used to cut my veins.

I imagine where the eyes of this…man might be.

And I imagine his eyes staring intensely into my own scared orbs of amber.

Zohra—wake up! What the hell are you doing?

The voice of reason shouts achingly in my head. Shit—what am I doing?

As though the mysterious man on the other side of the glass can read me thoughts—he retreats backwards, disappearing without a second glance.

My stomach churns with an unknown feeling.

The voice of reason must’ve collected the logical part of brain. I feel recoiled by my actions.

What was I thinking? What if the man thinks I’m interested in stalkers now?

I step back and look around to see if Gordon was awoken my silent actions.