I quickly walk out of the living room. The something-there feeling sticks to me, follows me through the house. I have not run to my parent's bedroom at night for years. I hover beside the door of the master bedroom but don't knock.

Standing quietly for about five minutes gets me back to normal, but I can't remember if the demon let go or if I broke free. It didn't talk again, but for a moment, it took hold of me as solidly as a pair of hands on the side of my head.

Bumping against the wall a few times, I wander to my bedroom. It's been years since I thought the dark was alive, but something made that Yakuza run. It's not just in my head.

I change into pajamas and scrub my teeth in the bathroom. All the while I tell myself the darkness in the car outside was nothing. Cold all over, I don't investigate. I avoid windows, because I'm not curious. Cynthia would force me to look, so it's good she left, except the bed is wide and cold without her. I kick under the blankets to warm up the place.

That Yakuza guy is lucky his people didn't see his fear. No demons jumped out at him. He saw ordinary death, and if bullet ridden bodies or stab wounds bother him, or whatever he saw, he shouldn't be a Yakuza. No one should be a Yakuza. I hate him - what happened to Cynthia, our ruined trip to Nakameguro - I hate them.

If I see him again, I'll kill him first. Before he kills me. I smile and kick my legs again under the blankets, angry but smiling and sleepy and alone. No demon talks in my head, just me, silly me.

***

First thing the next morning, I go downstairs and move the curtain to peek at the Yakuza car-

"Stop right there." Alan Lord, the FBI agent, listens carefully and rarely interrupts. Worried he heard something outside the hotel room door, I get out of the chair by the desk. He stays in the armchair he placed close to the door. He's a huge, muscular man with a thick, brown mustache and a shiny, bald head, but that raw power is refined and legitimized by his sharp blue pants and crisp white shirt. His blue suit coat hangs on a hook in the closet with his red tie. Smiling that everything's okay, he motions at me to sit. "What time was it when you looked out the window that morning?" he says.

That's probably not important, but he's deputy head of the New York City office of the FBI and knows best. "Around nine."

I haven't seen Alan for years, but I've known him since I was a kid. I'm not afraid to be alone in a hotel room with him, because he's one of my father's best friends. With some men that's still not good enough, but Alan's a teddy bear.

No matter what I say I can see in his eyes that Alan won't believe what happened to the Yakuza in the car. "I saw that same Yakuza guy a few nights ago, and-"

"Wait." Alan sips some water. "Tell me everything, but tell me in order."

"Do we have time for all the details?"

"I hope so. We should have time for more chess too."

***

That morning the Yakuza car is gone. When I check Wattpad, Joel Susugi's verified account is also gone. His Instagram still exists, and he recently posted a photo of himself hopping out of a New York City cab with two gorgeous girls. They have big shapely everything and show it off with tiny dresses and sparkly smiles, making me feel like a nine-year old.

Cynthia and I talk and message, but we're tired. We agree to lay low. We have to focus on school. In a couple of weeks, I'll also meet my father for the first time in almost ten years.

I don't tell Cynthia about the Yakuza outside my house. Sometimes I wonder if fake Joel was the Yakuza, but I don't share the idea with her. I can't think of any reason the Yakuza would secretly follow me on Wattpad.

***

Mr. Lombardi catches me at the window a few times. "Nothing," I say without being asked. I move the curtain back into place and exit the room.

If the Yakuza still watch the house, they're too crafty for me. Not that I hope to see that Yakuza guy - he's not my kind of hunk. If I see him, I want to ask why he ran from that car. If he describes anything like I saw, a shifting black smokiness, then I'll believe ghost stories more than I already do. The demon presence that night was so strong it was almost real. I need to buy an amulet fast, a powerful amulet.

The weeks pass. Finally, next week, we'll meet my father at a restaurant in the same hotel he used when he came looking for me in January. I won't talk to him beforehand. I'm awkward, it would be awkward, and I'm a scaredy cat. He's probably not as awful as my mother believes, but my family will talk while I listen and watch. That's my plan and the reality. He's supposed to be a charmer, a lady's man, and I'll resist with silence and an expressionless face. I'll be the hardest bitch he's ever met, even if I change my mind, because I can't control it. I'm a cold fish. I just am. He forgot about me, so he can blame himself.

Since February, Sophia listens to the CD that made my father more famous. In her room, she plays the song about him, Vintage Rob, almost every night. Once in awhile, my mother yells, "Turn it down" or "Turn it off." My mother tolerates it, because Sophia goes further when crossed. If there were posters of my father with the Gears, she'd find them and put them on her wall. Or her door. Sophia's only in fifth grade, but she'll probably have a boyfriend before I do! She's so forthright.

When I hear his song I don't know how to feel. My father's been a little famous for a long time. And lucky. And free to do whatever he wants. That's my mother talking, but why should I be available just because he wants to know me after almost dying? I should not feel guilty for wanting to get something out of it, like a job someday with the Gears or one of his other famous friends. If that makes me a bad person, I could be worse, much worse.

And I'm not sure what to think of him moving to Japan... The day before we're supposed to meet him I wake up early and stay in bed. The same old jumble of thoughts tumble around my head. At least it keeps away the demon. When I start my morning routine, Cynthia calls. "Makiko, you're not going to believe where I was tonight," she says.

I look at the clock. It's 6 am on a school day, and she's wide-awake. I don't have a good guess, just a bad feeling. "Roppongi?"

"Yes, at your father's apartment."

I'm immediately sick. And annoyed. And confused. What does that mean? What does she expect me to say? "And?"

"I was in Roppongi and missed the last train. We spotted your father in a bar and invited ourselves over. The other girls tried to get into his bed, because he's Vintage Rob and all that, but he tore out of the bedroom like a saint or something and slept on the floor all night. It's good news, isn't it? He's not the biggest slut or pervert in the world."

I sit on my unmade bed. I don't ask Cynthia if the girls were runaways. "Seriously, you went to his apartment?"

"Yeah, seriously, and he was fine, Makiko, he was great. And I didn't tell him I know you. I don't know what he was like when your mother left him, but he kept his hands to himself around us."

"I'm having dinner with him tomorrow," I say.

"I know. I played dumb."

After I hang up the phone, I'm angry, not because Cynthia and her friends tempted and tested my father - okay yes, I think I am - but also because she was in Roppongi. I can't believe she started that up after swearing to stop. And I hate her for meeting my father before I do and going to his place. That's so wrong and weird. Who does that?

The italicized text seemed to work for most people last time. How about now?

This chapter is a bridge to other things. Did it maintain your interest?

Do you have any new thoughts about Cynthia or Makiko?

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