The bruise on my arm is the easy part

Jolene standing there with her chest heaving after she pried Nia off me — she looked almost relieved, like she got to play hero. And I said yes to her help because who else is there. But she asked Nia. She went behind my back to ask Nia about the envelope and never told me until Nia was shoving me into a gate. I should be grateful she showed up. I am grateful. And I am furious at the same thing and I don't know how to put both of those down.

The edge of the wound opened again. Not deep, but it bled through the sleeve and I had to hold pressure walking home. A stranger on the street looked at my arm and I wanted to scream at him — don't look, this isn't what you think, I didn't fall, someone did this to me in an alley and there is footage of it somewhere on someone's phone. I want that footage. I want to see what my face looked like when she hit the gate.

The evidence map. I spread it out on the kitchen table and sat there looking at all of it like it was someone else's mess. The card. The recording timestamp. The copy shop receipt. The photo of the wound. A question mark next to the missed Tribeca call because I still don't know what that was about. Who booked me using a name I have never heard. I keep turning that over and it never lands right. It's the worst part — more than the gate, more than Jolene's secret question. Someone used me as a cover for something and I am never going to know what.