There was a sharp knock at the door, startling Davis awake. The only sound he heard as he got his bearings of the new day was the constant pounding. He then heard yelling. The voices were unintelligible but distinctly angry. He rushed from his bedroom to see what was happening and find the source of the commotion. At the same time, knew in the back of his mind and the pit of his stomach what was happening.

As he inched towards the door, the pounding and shouting grew louder. The cacophony of sound was recognizable as voices, but he was unable to discern words. As his hand reached out for the doorknob, the door flew open.

How it did not hit him, he did not know. The shock must have made him jump back, as he was standing in the middle of his kitchen as the mob entered the apartment. There was a steady stream of familiar faces of random people in the building. They were followed by people from the neighborhood and then others he'd seen at the grocery store. He seemed to be watching from above. He saw every person he'd seen over the last five years filed through his door holding signs and shouting.

The voices were now formed and very clear.

"Murderer!"

"Killer!"

"You killed that boy!"

His secret had gotten out and everyone came to run him out of town. Despite hundreds of people streaming into his one-bedroom apartment, he was calm. He knew there was still plenty time to run. But where? The bedroom door was a lot lighter than the apartment door they had kicked in, so he'd be a sitting duck. There was only one choice and that was out of his second-story window. He lunged for his computer, but it wasn't there. It must be in his backpack that was over his shoulder. Feeling the weight of the bag, he turned towards the window and started at a full run.

He soon felt his body make contact with the window—his arms outstretched to clear a path for his more vital parts. Where he anticipated resistance from the glass, there was the feeling of cotton. The give of the broken window was replaced by a net holding him in. The more he fought, the more entangled he became.

Davis jolted awake and snapped out of his fight against the top sheet. His room was pitch black. He freed his head and stared at the ceiling. He felt relief, but disappointment soon filled the room. He'd had this dream before—a lot of times before. There were similar dreams while he was in juvie. They increased in regularity as his release approached. Over the last five years, the dreams were more infrequent. They usually indicated one of two things: he felt too comfortable, or he thought his secret was out.

The dreams first started as nightmares. Now, while not enjoyable, it was less scary. The mob never reached him. The dream itself was a harbinger of sorts, appearing in more than enough time to get away. Whenever he dreamed about the mob, he knew he had one of two options. He could hunker down in his bedroom and wait for the mob to get him or he could jump out the window and move on.

He generally jumped.

It was 4 a.m. when Davis jolted awake. There would be no mob before dawn, so he decided he may as well start working.

Davis was a writer. That's what he did, he wrote. He felt "author" was too misleading. He wrote. Almost every day, all day, he sat down at his computer and put words on paper. He was rarely "inspired," and did not have ambitions of the next great work of literature. He wrote mostly fiction and it was mostly his own work. He published under the pseudonym James Carrick.

The author photo for James Carrick, he decided, would be fairly ridiculous. It was a black and white photo of himself hunched over a typewriter gazing into the distance. It offered the right amount of pretension to lend credibility, but also made you not want to meet him. The person in this picture, he thought, was probably an ostentatious prick. It also made him look 20-30 years older, so any ironic attachment to a typewriter was lost.

James Carrick published six pulp novels since Davis was released from juvenile detention. Dr. Nevada Kane, the protagonist, was a gritty archeologist. His historically accurate adventures took him throughout 1920's Egypt and northern Africa.

Dr. Kane was also a clear tongue-in-cheek knock-off of Indiana Jones.

Since Davis was always writing, he sometimes wrote essays on a wide array of sports topics. He had no real friends to speak off. The essays stemmed from conversations he had with himself. When enough had piled up, he offered them to his editor as an anthology. This was published under the name "Jimmy Carrick."

"Davis Archer," meanwhile, was a writing fixer of sorts. He did uncredited work ghostwriting novels in a successful crime series. He filled in the minutiae for a best-selling author who, due to his contract, he was not allowed to name. For these jobs, his quality, speed, and discretion proved to be lucrative qualities. Davis' editor was well-connected and funneled jobs his way. This allowed him to forgo a literary agent.

As a writer, Davis had done well for himself. His own book series was moderately successful as low-cost paperbacks. His book of sports essays was excerpted and syndicated around the country. It also made a top-20 list for sports books released that year.

The writing came easy because he focused on school while incarcerated. He had limited distractions and was interested in sticking to himself in juvie. He received his GED at 16 and earned a double bachelor's degree from Grand Canyon University. He did online coursework and majored in English and history, graduating at 20. "Proud" was not the right word, but he was happy to be a... were they the Grand Canyon Antelopes? He never cared to remember, but he did have a t-shirt with whatever their mascot was emblazoned on it. It was a gift from the learning coordinator that helped him finish his degrees.

Davis wrote his first Dr. Nevada Kane adventure novel while in juvenile detention. The book was accepted for publishing when he was released. He also had his first ghost-writing assignment lined up.

This line of work allowed him to remain isolated, but on his own terms. He could work from anywhere, which meant he could move whenever he started to feel uneasy.

He was facing deadlines this morning for a new draft of his next novel. He also faced a deadline for the final draft of another author's next book.

Davis was still in his clothes from the day before when he settled into his chair in front of the computer. The sun began to glow on the horizon outside his living room window. This apartment sucked for writing. There were sterile white walls and just two total windows. This made it a chore to do anything that required inspiration. He'd set his desk up in front of the lone window in the living room to make the best of a bad situation.

Every time he chose a new apartment, Davis chose function over distinction. These large, indistinct complexes often had partially furnished accommodations. He was able to blend into a crowd of residents and did not have to lug around a sofa when he moved. This particular unit also came with pots and pans. Judging by the condition, they may have been left behind by the previous tenant.

He was debating which writing project to continue when Lucy crept into his mind. He liked her. In a normal situation, they'd be a great match and could have a nice, normal relationship. With his history, he was just happy that she was as patient as she was, and he was grateful for the opportunity. When it came time, he hoped she would be understanding, at least more so than Lisa or Karen. Definitely more than Leslie, who found out his secret on her own. That could not have gone worse.

Hope flickered inside Davis for a moment, which pained him all that much more. He decided not to fight it. He wanted to see how she was feeling, which he could usually glean from her social media presence. This was a valuable took for knowing his standing with her early in the relationship. He became less reliant after the first couple of phone calls.

Lucy was active on Instagram and Facebook. Instagram was for show, but she relied on Facebook for sharing her thoughts. He didn't have a Facebook account. He avoided social media for the obvious headaches it could cause. He did maintain one social media account, a Twitter page under @JamesCarrick_1. That was more for work and promotion. The account followed one other account, his publisher, and featured 3,245 followers. He sent about three tweets a month to his audience of fans, corporate accounts and bots.

He clicked on the bookmark that led to her publicly available Facebook page. As it loaded, he tried to prepare for every possible reaction. When he arrived it was, well, pretty bad.

Lucy Atwater: OMG, the guy I'm seeing killed someone. Just found out tonight. He was a kid, but WTF.

Not a good start. Then he scanned some of the more engaged comments.

Sandy Ellington: What? who?

Lucy Atwater: He was 13 and did it out of revenge or whatever. He got out of prison when he turned 21.

Sandy Ellington: I REMEMBER THAT!!! Holy shit. That happened near where I grew up in Seattle. That's fucking crazy. Are you okay?

Lucy Atwater: I'll be fine. Thankfully we never met in person. He wanted to tell me before, I dunno, sleeping with me?

Sandy Ellington: I'm glad your safe. Block. Block. Block. Maybe change your number.

Lucy Atwater: 🙏

Denise Miller: That's fucking crazy!

Tracy Miller: Who'd he kill?!?

This last comment made Davis especially uneasy. Tracy's photo looked familiar, and he realized she lived in his building. They rarely spoke outside of a 'hi' or head nod, but she was nosey and, by all accounts, the building busy body. She could cause issues around the building if she made the connection.

What are the fucking odds, he wondered, that Lucy would know someone in his building?

Denise Miller: I talked to Lucy OTP, I think this is it: https://www.seattletimes.com/seattle-news/crime/juvenile-sentenced-in-death-of-13-year-old-classmate

Tracy Miller: Holy shit. He looks kinda familiar. What does he look like now? Lucy Atwater, do you have a pic?

Lucy Atwater: In your email.

Tracy Miller: NNOOOOOO. He lives in my building! What do I fucking do?

Steve Shearer: Tell your manager. I'm sure he can kick him out. There's probably something in his lease about public safety.

Chad Trombley: Dude USED to live in your building. Tracy's nosey ass is going get that guy KICKED. THE. FUCK. OUT! LOL

Shit.

He closed out of the tab and leaned back in his chair to take stock of what he had read. He tried to remain calm and looked around for his cigarettes. He spied them on the counter and rolled his chair the eight feet to the kitchen to reach them. He then fished his lighter out of his coat pocket. He lit a cigarette and took a drag while staring out of the window, contemplating his next move.

Davis surveyed his small apartment. He determined that he would be able to pack everything he owned into two suitcases about 30 minutes. He did not own a TV and none of the furniture. His computer was his primary source of entertainment. He used it for television, movies and video games.

It only took 25 minutes.

He returned to his desk dressed for the day in a faded, plain blue long-sleeve t-shirt and gray hiking shorts. With the expectation of an early departure, he also put on his shoes. He smoked a pair of cigarettes as he started looking for a new place to live.

The knock at the door was surprisingly early—6:30 a.m. A building manager that knocks that early? This apartment could not get any worse.

"Hold on," he said loud enough to hear through the door, but not shouting out of respect for his neighbors.

Davis closed his computer and slid it into a backpack. He grabbed his suitcases and worked his way towards the entrance. When he opened the door, a white middle-aged man with a crown of brown hair around his bald head awaited him. The building manager stood there impatiently. He tried to not appear nervous and failed miserably. He had a look of consternation on his round, clean-shaven face. His arms were crossed over a heavier mis-section covered by a loose-fitting t-shirt. When Davis saw him, he was repositioning his arms, nervously. This was less in search of comfort and more in an attempt to strike the proper authority.

Davis walked past him and into the hall. He moved towards the stairs without acknowledging the manager's presence.

Later that day, he'd get a slight kick out of this interaction. He imagined the manager had woken up early and already had several messages. Tracy and her network of building complainers probably reached out last night. Davis imagined him practicing his eviction speech with a "firm, but fair deadline" to move out. He was particularly amusing when juxtaposed with what actually transpired. This would be a great story to tell at parties or with friends. That is, if he went to parties or had friends.

"Keys are on the table," Davis offered without looking back.

A few steps later, he stopped and turned. "If I don't have my security deposit and last month's rent in my account by the end of the week, you'll hear from my lawyer," he added.

He didn't have a lawyer.

"But..." was all the manager could muster.

By this time Davis had reached the stairwell. "Fuck off," he shouted over his shoulder and then disappeared from view.