the folder I never wanted

Eleven minutes. I counted because I was watching the microwave clock from the bed and when I stopped I looked up and it had been eleven minutes. Camille's voice in my ear like a recording of someone I used to know. I can't see you this week. The way she said Marcus like I should already know. The way Eli said it's not worth the trouble like I was a line item in someone else's budget.

Camille is dead to me. Not angry-dead. Gone-dead. The way a client is gone when they book the new girl. She named me to a man in a doorway and then called to say she was done. I was an asset that got too hot and she cut me.

The photo of her stoop this morning. Someone walked up to Camille's building and took a picture and sent it to me. your friends are easy to find. so is your mother in atlanta. I have stood in clients' bedrooms while they told me things they'd die before telling their husbands and none of those rooms felt as exposed as my own kitchen at noon. I screenshotted. I drafted hi mama. checking in. I did not send it. What good is checking in when whoever wrote this knows her name and her city?

I am ranking people by exposure now. Robin is low. My mother is high. Camille was low and is now weapon. Robin got need to talk at 7pm and I don't know what I'll say when she calls back. Probably the long version of the short version. She is the only person I have who has never been inside one of my clients' homes and therefore can't be used as a way in.