Free Eight Million Gods-eARC by Wen Spencer Page B

remembered that was against the rules. She eyed the commuters around her, currently ignoring her. She considered texting her. No. That would make Miriam an accomplice to—to—to something. Tampering with evidence? On that thought, she made sure to delete her call to Miriam from her phone’s log.
    “You don’t seriously think that a policeman hacked your computer?” She whispered to her phone the conversation she so desperately wanted to have with Miriam. “Why would Yoshida have me arrested? So we could meet while he’s in a position of authority? He honestly seemed terrified of me, but that could have been an act. But why would he put a katana into the coin locker? How could he know I’d be crazy enough to go looking for it?”
    It was only three stops to Tanimachi 4-chome in Otemae. Far too short a distance to come up with any reasonable answer. She darted off the train and hurried out of the station. If she was being followed, she only had a couple of minutes lead time to get to the safety of her apartment. She could grab her laptop, a change of clothes, and then go someplace else, someplace safe.
    But where the hell was that at this time of night?
    Her apartment was on the sixth floor, around the corner and down the hall from the elevator. She had never minded before that the bare concrete hallway reminded her of something out of Ringu .
    She unlocked her door. Opened it. Then realized that the killer could be inside—waiting for her. She stood in the doorway a moment, panting, carefully scanning the small room. She had left the sliding closet door open and the accordion-like door to the bathroom was folded. The studio apartment had no other place to hide. She stepped in, shut the door and locked it behind her.
    “Calm down, stay calm.” She kicked off her sandals out of habit. “Psycho fan wants to play. Killing me would stop the game, so I’m probably safe from him. Everyone else is dead meat, but I’m—I’m—I’m scared shitless but probably safe.”
    She realized she was still clutching the sword in her left hand. She put it on the table and picked up one of her omnipresent pens. She paced her small studio apartment, clicking nervously.
    “Does he know where I live?” She considered. “Well, if he hacked my computer, he knows everything on it. I e-mailed my new address to my editor and my agent, so, yes, he knows where I live.”
    The only thing that might save her was an oddity of Japanese urban planning. She was in 4-choma, or the fourth district, and anyone could find that. Her block number would have been assigned by both proximity to the city but also in the order it was settled. Finding the right block was more difficult. The houses on the block were then numbered as they were built. The first house on the block was “one.” There might be a dozen houses between “one” and “two” as newer houses crowded into the space between the original buildings.
    Because of this, even housewives had business cards with maps to their houses printed on the back.
    Her crazed fan, though, had obviously been stalking her for a long time if he found a katana to match the one in her story. He had time to roam her neighborhood and find her apartment building.
    She needed to bounce. Usually she just fled with what she was wearing. But she never had so much “her” to leave behind. Never before could she decorate the walls, buy clothes, pick out dishes and pots. Everything in the apartment was seeped with her happiness in setting up her place. The joy in her power to finally make decisions for herself.
    She could be packed in thirty minutes.

    She had washed her clothes on Saturday and hung them on bamboo poles across her balcony. Luckily everything was dry. She took them down, folded and then rolled them to save space. She only had one suitcase, an ultra cute Hello Kitty trolley that she had bought for her “visa renewal” trips. Maybe she should head to South Korea early.
    As she packed, she backed