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My bare feet are quiet on the cold tiles as I make my way into the living room once I’m dressed. I’m trying not to let the fact that I’m wearing my own bloody clothes freak me out. My discomfort only grows as I see that B has thoughtfully added my old keyring to the set of car keys that sit next to a brand-new cell phone on the coffee table.

My partner is one screw lose and a couple of dollars short of sane. Her ability to rattle me without being present would inspire an undying appreciation for her evilness—if I wasn’t her target.

I pick up the keys first, turning the keyring over in my hands to read the inscription I know from memory on the back.

“One day this will be a BMW.”

The engraving is a joke. Amber gave it to me the day I picked out our new-to-us, second-hand shit box after the final death of our previous one. Knowing how much I coveted one of the new BMW’s over the other side of the caryard, my thoughtful woman had found a way to lighten the mood when our finance had been approved for a much cheaper car.

Closing my fingers around the key ring, I squeeze them as rage rushes up my spine and digs its way into my brain. The psycho thinks she’s pulling the strings, but she has another think coming if she’s decided that this is the way to play her hand. These reminders of my previous life aren’t going to bring me to heel. They’re going to drive my desire to see them all six-feet underground as quickly as possible into a frenzy.

I snatch up the cell phone and march back into the bedroom. My feet are shoved into the first pair of shoes that I find and I’m standing next to the BMW in the drive a minute later.

“Let’s see how good your fucking monitoring is.” I utter the challenge into the cool night sky as I press the button to unlock the car. One GPS entry later and I’m heading off into the dark with nothing, but the burning need to see how far I can push B’s limits in my head.

Driving the car is like operating a cloud. It’s smooth, easy to control, and another dagger to my heart. It’s taken a deal with the devil for me to get my ass in the car of my dreams. I push away that thought because I know it’s going to take me down an unwanted track, and distract myself by trying to remember what day of the bloody week it is instead. It’s not readily apparent to me, but I think it’s Sunday evening. The traffic is light—lighter than I expected—and we had the prison’s Sunday special for dinner.

I guess I’m not completely out of touch with the world then.

“In fifty metres, make a right turn onto Seventh Avenue.” The GPS scares the shit out of me when it comes through the speakers of the car. I concentrate on following the directions through the semi-familiar neighbourhood, jiggling my non-accelerator leg as the anticipation of what I’m about to do grows too much to handle.

“The destination is on your left.” The GPS tells me what I already know. I pull the BMW to the side of the street, parking in front of the house where Amber grew up.

Memories of the last time I was parked in front of this house return to the forefront of my mind as the sounds of people approaching grow louder. I brace for confrontation, for the accusation that I’m an interloper in their little oasis. It doesn’t come. This time my vehicle is a much better fit for the surroundings. The dog walkers in their expensive jogging outfits with their electronics strapped their upper arms barely offer me a skerrick of their attention when they pass.

Confidence buoyed, I unclip my seat belt and prepare to exit the BMW. I’m stopped when a bell-like sound begins chiming through the car. My forgotten cell vibrates on the passenger seat where I tossed it, the ringing evidently the Bluetooth connected to the car.

I press the green phone symbol on the steering wheel. The call connects, and before I’m able to get a word out, B’s voice has filled the car. “If I recall correctly, I told you that you didn’t have my permission to leave the house tonight.”

“And, hello to you, too,” I drawl in response to her snarky greeting. I grin when my attempt at wit is ignored.

“It seems as if you haven’t grasped the gravity of your situation quite yet. While I appreciate that you’re eager to get on with the job, I will be choosing your first target, and Malcolm and Cynthia St. George are not it. This is your last warning. Stop pushing me or I’ll be forced to change my focus to your family and that would be a terrible outcome for all involved.”

I narrow my eyes at her blatant threat, glaring at the speaker in the middle of the dashboard as B continues outlining her carefully cultivated assessment of my current dilemma. “I had planned on discussing this with you tomorrow. I thought you’d appreciate the opportunity to clean yourself up and have a good night’s sleep before we got down to business. Silly me, I guess I was wrong.”

“Goddamned motherfucking fuck.” I bang my fist against the steering wheel. “Fuck!”

“Now, now, it’s not like I haven’t seen a penis before.” B leers, and for obvious reasons, the image of her licking her lips invades my mind’s eye. A shiver of disgust winds down my spine at the thought of her watching me. “But, rest assured, yours is definitely on the more impressive end of the list.”

I throw my head back against the headrest, bashing it twice. Disappointment is the most potent of the emotions that are coursing through me, quickly followed by anger. While I’ve been worried about shampoo and key rings, she’s been enjoying the knowledge that she has me in check.

“Why’d you let me get all the way here?” I have a dozen questions that I could ask, yet out of everything that seems to be the most important at the moment. “You could’ve phoned at any time to stop me.”

“We wanted to see how far you’d go and you proved us right. You are the best man for the jobs ahead—your desire to regain the status quo will push you to embrace our methodology, just as much as it will drive you to attempt to defeat me.”

Placing my hands on the steering wheel, I pull myself forward and start the engine. It purrs to life—mocking me with its easy reignition. It also reminds me that my revival isn’t going to come from something as simple as the turn of a key.

“I’m going back to the house.” I let down the handbrake and put the BMW into drive.

“No, you’re not.” B giggles, a malevolent sound that tells me she’s put another aspect of this game into motion. “Meet me at 1881 Columbia Boulevard in half an hour. I have something to show you.”