Michael pushed the blue and white striped bag across the counter to the young woman. She had freshly painted burgundy nailed, an inch of makeup, and an outfit that cost too much for the lack of material. Her two friends stood beside her, staring at their phones.
"Thank you for coming in today. Seventy-five percent of the purchase is going towards—"
"Take our picture." The girl said, reaching her phone across the counter to Michael. "Outside."
He took the phone and followed the three ladies outside. They posed in front of the new recently hung shop sign. He took a step into the street, counted down, and snapped a photo.
"We can't all have our hands on our hips. It looks tacky." The girl scolded her less attractive friends. "Here," she turned back to Michael, "We're going to talk to each other, and can you take our picture while we're talking?"
After three more rounds of photos, the ladies left, and Michael headed back into the shop.
"You're a hero Michael Robinson," Christine smiled. "What would those girls have done without you? Self-timer and run?"
"It would've been a tragedy," Michael replied. Christine laughed and walked across the shop.
It'd been a strange four months since leaving The Company. The numbers on Mimsy's letter to Castillo turned out to be the account of his hefty inheritance. He was grateful but would've traded the money in an instant to have her back in his life. She was gone. Stuart was gone. After days of hoping they'd return, he finally decided they weren't coming back. They'd both passed, and all he had were the memories.
Michael stayed home for two weeks in complete isolation. He changed the locks so the Bissetts couldn't sneak in and blocked their numbers so they couldn't call. He cut off all communication from the outside world. By the third week of self-sorrow Michael decided he needed change to start over.
While walking in the city, he found himself wandering down to Christine's place. He planned on just walking by, taking a quick glance in the window, and continuing on, but when he got there, she was outside directing a moving team.
Christine was surprised but glad to see him. They made small talk in front of the workers, then talked about The Company late into the evening once everyone had left. He visited again two days later and eventually volunteered to help set up her new shop. She'd purchased the first-floor next door and had knocked down the middle wall to create the shop floor. After three weeks of long commutes, Michael decided to rent a small apartment for the weekdays that quickly turned into his permanent address.
Without telling Christine, Michael had contacted multiple news outlets to cover the opening of the shop. One showed up and did a segment on the first homeless shop of San Francisco called "Christine's Home." Every item was designed by the local community, with the profits going towards food and shelters. The news caught on, and it had become somewhat of an attraction for tourists. Christine wasn't sure if the traffic would continue, but she didn't care, the place she'd always dreamed of was now a reality.
"See you tomorrow," Michael said rolling his bike out of the shop
"Goodnight, Michael," Christine gently closed the door behind him. He turned, and she gave him a soft wave goodbye through the window.
The cool breeze hit his face as he biked East down O'farrel slowing as he rolled through Powel street to avoid colliding with tourists heading to and from Union Square. Market Street was still clogged with evening traffic as he rolled through the green bike lane. The pop-up booths were getting folded for the night in the plaza as he took a left on Embarcadero and took a deep breath of the bay's salty air. Sirens echoed in the distance. He turned onto Washington and slowed to watch the couple playing on the lit-up tennis court.
He hopped off the bike and walked as he approached the entrance to his high-rise apartment building. An ambulance and two police cars were parked out front with their lights still flashing. He stood still as he watched the emergency team run into the building with a stretcher. He was so infatuated that he hadn’t heard the man approach him from behind.
"Thank goodness you're alive." A voice said.
He spun around to see Stanley Castillo walking up from a bench. He was wearing a pea coat that was in slight contradiction to the weather.
"What are you doing here?" Michael asked in a hushed voice.
"I was hoping you'd come back. There's not much time. You're in danger. We need to leave."
"What are you talking about?"
"Quint Morton is dead," Castillo stated. "I think you've been activated. Go up to your apartment and grab a few things, we need to leave."
Michael's hands started shaking on the handlebars. He dropped the bike. He pulled out his phone, "I need to tell Christine." He said, pulling it to his ear. "She's a friend."
Castillo grabbed the phone from his hands, "I'll talk to her, you need to hurry." Michael hesitated, then turned to leave.
"Oh, and Michael," he said. Michael turned. "Take this. I don't think anyone's up there, but just a precaution."
He pulled a pistol from his coat and handed it to Michael. "Now hurry."
Michael pushed the pistol into his waistband and ran into the complex.
When the elevator door opened to the 15th floor, he stepped into a busy scene. The EMS team was pushing a stretcher with a covered body. He turned down the long hallway to see two policemen pacing the floor. He walked to his apartment and stopped when he found the door pushed open. Two more policemen with another full ems team were inside.
"What's...what's going on?" Michael stated.
"You live here?" An officer asked. He took a step towards Michael and was joined by a second cop.
"Do you live here!" The officer raised his voice, "Get on the floor." He yelled. Michael obeyed.
The second officer approached him and started patting him down. He felt the weapon, "What is that?" He yelled.
"It's a gun," Michael said.
"Keep your hands behind your head!" he yelled.
Michael obeyed. His head was pounding. The officer pulled him to his knees, then to his feet. He cuffed his hands behind his back. He removed the gun from the Michael's belt and dropped it into a plastic bag his partner held open.
The officer pulled him to his feet and pushed him down the hallway to his living room.
Michael's legs quivered uncontrollably as he saw the room. He couldn't look away. The officer began reciting Michael his rights, but he wasn't listening. The world was blacked out as he stood in complete bewilderment. Everything seemed like a sick and terrible dream. A man was lying on his back in the middle of the room. He had three gunshot wounds in his chest and a slit throat that had splattered blood all across the room. The rug around him was stained crimson. Michael recognized him even after all these years. It was his father.