The phone nearly slipped from Mrs. Julie's trembling fingers. "Honey! What's going on? I was worried sick! Where's your phone? Why haven't you called?" Relief washed over her in a tidal wave, threatening to drown the fear that had been constricting her chest for days.
    A muffled voice crackled through the receiver. "Dropped it. Lost it, somewhere. Been looking for it, actually. Had to borrow a phone to call you."
   "But weren't you supposed to be home today? So much has happened since you left." Her voice strained with a mixture of urgency and suppressed panic.
   "You home now?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
   "Not exactly. I was just at the police station..."
   A sigh, heavy with exasperation, filled the line. "To demand a search party, I presume? You worry too much, sweetie. Alright, I'm almost home. You can leave now." He hung up before she could respond, leaving a dial tone buzzing in her ear.
   "Was that your husband, ma'am?" The officer’s tone was neutral, but his eyes held a flicker of suspicion.
   "Yes," she said, her voice catching slightly. "He's back."
   A muscle twitched in the policeman's jaw. "Thanks for wasting my time, Mrs. Brock. Don't hesitate to contact us if he doesn't return again for a long time."
   Julie forced a nervous laugh. "Really sorry about that, officer." With a hurried apology, she practically fled the station, the unsettling look in the policeman’s eyes clinging to her like a shroud.
   The minutes crawled by until, finally, just past seven, Mr. Brock arrived. Julie launched herself into his arms, burying her face in his chest, the joy of his return almost blinding.
   Eager to unburden herself, she pulled him inside, words tumbling out in a rush as she recounted the events of the past few days.
****
"...and I really couldn't wrap my head around it, how Kelvin could be involved. He was a member of the 18th Street Gang." She stopped to catch her breath.
   Brock nodded curtly. "Warned you about him."
   "Oh, and the police officer said he needs to speak with you when you get back."
   "I have no business with the police," Brock grumbled, already heading toward the living room. "I'm a night watchman, and besides, I need to rest."
   "It's all thanks to Gianna, though," Julie said, her voice laced with gratitude as she bustled into the kitchen to make tea.
   "Gianna?" Brock stopped abruptly, his face a mask of confusion. "Who's Gianna?"
   "Hey, slow down," Julie chided playfully. "She's a victim of the 18th Street gang. She escaped and she's searching for her husband... and guess what?" Julie paused for dramatic effect, a cheerful smile spreading across her face. "Her husband's name is also Brock! Can you believe it? Someone else in Los Angeles sharing your name!"
   A coldness settled in Mr. Brock’s eyes. "Where is she now?"
   "At the hospital. Do you want to see her?" Julie asked, offering him a steaming mug of tea.
   He Sighed "You know I just need to rest."
   Julie continued, oblivious to the sudden tension in the room. "Well, guess what else? Her husband was one of the main leaders of the 38th Street Gang!"
   Brock choked on the tea, sputtering and coughing as he slammed the mug down on the table. "Come again, please."
   "Her husb—"
   "Yeah, I heard you clearly," he snapped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You didn't report this to the police, did you?"
   "No. She only has a few years to live, and she wants to spend them in peace. Why do you ask?"
   "Nothing," he said quickly, his gaze averted. "I just don't want you to get too involved."
   "I won't."
   "Does she know you're married?"
   "Yes. I told her all about you, and how you have the same name as her husband. Why?"
   "Just don't want her getting any crazy ideas."
   "Actually," Julie said, her voice a little too casual, "I was thinking about bringing her home with us, for the time being."
   "What?! Come on, you can't be serious." His voice rose in alarm.
   "Honey, she needs help, and she has nowhere else to go. Stop acting so scared."
   "Don't you get it? What if she's wanted? A criminal?"
   "Well, if any cops turn up, we'll just tell them she has amnesia, just like the doctor thinks."
   "Wait, the doctor said she has amnesia?"
   "Yes. Why do you think she hasn't been reported missing?"
   "But still, I don't think this is a good idea." He began to sweat.
   "Come on, it won't be for long."
   "Alright," Brock relented, his voice tight. "Do as you please." Frustration etched lines around his mouth as he turned and stalked out of the house.
   As soon as he was out of sight, he found a nearby phone company, purchased a cheap burner phone, and punched in a familiar number.
   The phone rang, and after a moment, a voice answered. "Hello? Who's this?"
   "It's me, Rina. I really need your help, things are about to get messed up, and I can't think of a perfect solution." Brock’s voice was edged with panic.
   "Okay, okay, calm down. What's going on?" Rina said, her voice a mix of concern and irritation.
   "It's Gianna."
   "What about her?"
   "She's alive."
   "What?! Gianna?! How is that possible?"
   "I don't know. All I know is my current wife helped her while I was away, took her to the nearest hospital, and now she's planning on bringing her home. You need to get her out of there."
   "I think it's pretty much messed up already. How do I get her out? The doctor isn't going to give me permission."
   "Come on, Rina, you know what to do." Brock pleaded.
   Rina sighed heavily. "Why do I always have to clean up your messes?"
   "Sorry. Please, just this once. What about Hackerman?"
   "Having fun with Shen and the others at the hideout."
   "Alright. Please be careful. Take her to the hideout. I'll be there first thing in the morning." Brock concluded, hanging up and exhaling deeply.
   He forced himself to walk back into the house, plastering a smile on his face.
   Lying in bed, Julie asked, "You said you're leaving for work tomorrow, where am I supposed to go? This place doesn't seem safe anymore."
   "Hmm, I really can't think of anything, but how about you lodge at a hotel until we figure things out?" Brock replied, avoiding her gaze.
   "What if anyone traces me to the hotel? Besides, how do we figure it out? You're always busy with work," Julie said, turning onto her side, away from him. "I was planning on asking Kelvin at the police station."
   "Kelvin! Aren't you supposed to stay away from him as much as you can?" His voice rose with alarm.
   "It won't hurt to ask him one or two questions."
   "Just be careful," Brock advised, his voice low and strained. Under his breath, he muttered, "Darn it! My life is getting worse and worse."
****
Midnight cloaked the city in shadows. Rina, her face concealed behind a white surgical mask, slipped through the hospital's automatic doors.
   She found a deserted dressing room, quickly changed into a stolen nurse's uniform, and began her methodical search for Gianna's room.
   She scoured the first floor, then the second, and finally the top floor, but there was no sign of the woman. Finally, she came across a room that sent a chill down her spine. The bed was a mess of tangled sheets, the bedside table littered with empty medicine vials, and an IV drip swayed listlessly, disconnected from its pole.
   Rina knew something was wrong, terribly wrong. She couldn't risk calling Brock without being seen, so she texted him. *'Seems like she's gone. Can't find her anywhere in the hospital.'*
****
Before dawn painted the sky with streaks of grey and pink, Brock was already awake. He dressed quickly and slipped out of the house without a word to his sleeping wife.
   He pulled out his phone, intent on calling Rina, but a text message from an unknown number made his blood run cold.
   He immediately dialed Rina.
   "Rina, what the hell are you talking about? She's got to be there! If not, then where?" Brock demanded, his voice tight with barely suppressed fury.
   "How am I supposed to know?" Rina replied, her voice thick with sleep. "I told you, I saw a room with unfinished drugs, a scattered bed, and a drip. Or maybe it's the wrong hospital."
   "It can't be. Julie said it was an emerg—" Brock's words died in his throat. Three sleek, black Lexus RS 350s appeared in his rearview mirror, rapidly closing the distance.
   Instinctively, he knew who they were and where they were heading.
   He hung up the phone and slammed his foot on the accelerator, executing a screeching U-turn and speeding back toward home. "Why? Why? Why so many wrongs?" Brock roared, slamming his fist against the steering wheel in a paroxysm of rage and fear.
   He screeched to a halt in front of the house, leaping out of the car and charging through the front door. "Sweetie, come on, we need to..." The words froze in his throat, his mind reeling from the scene of unspeakable violence before him.
   Blood was spattered across the walls, the air thick with the coppery stench of death. And scrawled in blood on the living room wall, a single, chilling message: "The Hideout."
......
...