Free The Mamacita Murders by Debra Mares Page B

the chamber of my Glock. I hold the top of the gun and rack the slide. The clicking sound makes me feel ready. For what? I have no idea.
    Another sound from the bushes outside my window gets my heart pumping fast again. I take two deep breaths in and out. I walk to my bedroom door, close it, and crawl back into bed. I sit up, spread my legs, and balance my body. Then, I hold my Glock. Steady. Good job, Grace Under Pressure. I aim it at my bedroom door.
    I’ve been a prosecutor long enough to know that no 9-1-1 call will ever protect you like you can protect yourself. I’ve always learned it’s best to stay in one place, armed and ready, waiting for someone to come find you. It’s better than walking around my place. I know the layout of my place much better than any intruder would know. I’ll wait for him to come to me.
    I listen to the waves crashing and sit in darkness. I look at my dresser, wondering if I should put some clothes on. My mom used to tell me to always wear clean underwear when I leave the house in case I was ever taken to the hospital. But I’m too nervous to get up. And the only person who’s going to the hospital tonight is going to be the intruder who’s about to get a nine millimeter bullet right through his chest.
    The only sound I can hear is the rush of blood through my body, which sounds like I’m under water. And then, my beating heart, a sound I’m starting to hear a lot more lately.
    I hear the screen on my front door open. I look at my alarm clock on my night stand. 10:05 p.m. I grab my cell phone and dial a nine, deciding whether to call 9-1-1. Who would be coming to my door at this hour, on a weeknight? If I call 9-1-1, they’ll think I’m crazy.
    I close my eyes and grip onto the handle of my Glock. Please tell me what to do. Nothing. Why do I do what I do? Is this really worth being a prosecutor? I hate living in fear. I don’t get paid enough for this. I think of my mom. And I remember that if my life ended right now, it would be the beginning of a new one with her. My eyes flutter as I grip tighter, careful not to touch anywhere near the trigger.
    I look at my other night stand and see my homicide pager lying there. I’m not going to be the next homicide victim. Just as I dial the next number, I hear the screen to my front door close. I stay quiet, then hear a car door open and close, before an engine starts. The sound of a car driving away makes me hang up the 9-1-1 call. I listen. The sound is so familiar. The ticking rattle of an engine, the same one after the drive-by, fades in the distance.
    I get up and walk down my hallway, holding my Glock in one hand and my cell phone in the other. I get to my front door and look through the peephole. I can’t see through it because something is blocking it. I dial Dylan’s number and listen to his voicemail pick up, then hang up and open the door.
    A note lies in the iron trap design around the peephole of my door. I grab the note as my sensor light turns on. The sound of my beating heart gets louder as I stare beyond the light. A coyote stares eagerly at me. I slam the door shut, flip my inside light on, and let out a deep breath. I put my phone and gun down and open the note. In purple ink, it reads:
    You’Re next. You’Re choice. Bullet, blade, oR flamingo vase?

8
     
    ANGEL’S DEN
     
    The morning after receiving the note, I sit at a small round table inside my Airstream with Angela. She flips over the “Kiki’s Closet” chalkboard sign hanging from a pink satin ribbon on the door to read “Angel’s Den.” I love how she sets the mood, turning our wardrobe closet into our private angel reading room, even during broad daylight.
    She pulls the black fabric curtain with bright pink symbols and designs to shut it closed and make the Airstream as dark as possible. Then she lights a candle on the table next to the threatening note I received last night. We study the note.
    “This means one thing for sure. There’s more to