KNOX: Volume 1 by Cassia Leo Page A

in.”
    She releases me and her fingers glance over my forearm as she walks away. As I watch her set off toward Grand Central Terminal, all I can think is that I am naïve. I am so naïve. I haven’t been to August’s apartment in four months.
    I spin around to face the street and flag down the first cab. I’m going to August’s apartment. I’m going to demand to know what is wrong with us. I’m twenty-three years old with a gorgeous twenty-five-year-old boyfriend who never takes me to his apartment. I know what he’s going to say. He’s going to say it’s because I prefer midtown to the lower east side. Avoiding his apartment is just his way of trying to be agreeable. I’m not falling for that.
    I throw my arm out angrily, determined to hail a cab and fly to August’s apartment on a wind of fury. But the first car that stops for me is not a taxi. It’s a shiny black SUV. And before I can step aside to try to hail a real cab, a man appears at my side, his fingers discreetly curling around my wrist.
    “Your car is here.” His dark eyes are locked on mine, never blinking, not even as the SUV door is flung open. “Your father needs to speak to you.”
    That’s all he has to say.

3

    I climb into the SUV and I’m not surprised to find that there’s another man in there waiting to receive me. Both he and the guy who met me on the curb are wearing dark suits and sunglasses. I’m sure if I could see anything inside this dark SUV, I’d find earpieces shining inside their ears.
    When all three of us are settled into the backseat, the SUV pulls away from Grand Central Terminal and sets off down 42nd. The bigger guy on my left reaches behind his back and my heart stops. They wouldn’t kill me just like that, would they? I brace myself for whatever he’s about to retrieve from behind his back, my body tensed and ready to flail about. But when he pulls his hand out, he’s holding a large piece of black cloth. Upon further inspection, I notice it’s a black hood.
    I can’t see his eyes through the sunglasses, but the fact that he’s offering it to me instead of putting it on me himself seems to be some show of respect. They’re not going to kill me. They don’t even want to hurt me. They’re too afraid of my father. Which means that my father is not as angry with me for abandoning the family as I had imagined. Or … he wants something.
    I huff as I snatch the black silk hood out of his hand. I quickly note my surroundings before I pull it over my head. We’re just approaching Fifth Avenue. Everything goes black and I try to keep track of the many turns the vehicle makes. But it doesn’t take long for me to realize that they’re probably taking me on a winding route just to confuse me.
    When the car finally stops and the engine dies, my stomach vaults. I haven’t seen my father in four years since the last time I visited Mom at home and he was actually home – a rare occasion. I was nineteen and terribly homesick during Spring Break at Hunter College where I was studying, of all things, creative writing. My visit home was supposed to be soothing and relaxing and familiar. Instead, my father decided to get out of jail three weeks early and I left the house without him uttering a word to me; his eyes watching me as I walked out the door, his lips unable to break a smile or silence for his only child.
    The worst part about leaving home is the conversations with my mother. She’s had to endure my father’s grief over the fact that she never gave him more than one child. She’s never admitted it, but I can imagine him calling her useless. My mother is far from useless. Without my mother, I’d probably be traipsing around town with diamond-encrusted fingernails and a designer dog. My mother taught me to want more.
    But I must admit that, as they help me out of the SUV and my heart pounds so hard I can barely breathe, it’s not just fear of my father that has me this stressed. I’m also intrigued. For my