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I take a deep breath as I walk through the corridor, trying to hide my nervousness. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake the feeling of being watched and followed by an unseen presence lurking just out of sight.
And then, as I round a corner, lost in my thoughts, I collide with someone holding a bag that makes her seem almost as suspicious as I am. My heart leaps into my throat as I stumble backward, my hands flailing for balance.
I may be new to the life of crime, but there’s something sketchy about this person. For starters, several stacks of cash fell out of her bag, and she immediately starts to pick them up.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I exclaim, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment as I reach out to help her pick up some of it. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
Since being brought into this dangerous game, I have learned one thing. No one is what they seem. Which is why I take note of every detail of her appearance. It could turn out to be nothing, but whatever it is, it’s best to have a mental picture of her.
She doesn’t look up at me, at least not until she manages to stash her cash. Then she looks up with an expression I can’t read.
“Oh, what a coincidence!” she says.
“I’m sorry. Do I know you?” I ask.
Her next action makes it obvious that she’s a reporter hawking me for a good story. She pulls out a pen and a small jotter, her eyes sharp as she zeroes in on me like a hawk spotting its prey.
“Ms. Lisa, I’ve been looking everywhere for you, or shall I call you Mrs.?” she says as she reaches out to grab my arm. “I need to ask you a few questions.”
I tense up at her words, trying to anticipate what she might ask. Is she the one who released the tape? I wonder, my stomach churning with anxiety. But I force myself to remain calm and keep my emotions in check.
“About what?” I ask, feigning ignorance.
“Well, about the tape.”
“What tape?” I ask, my voice steady but tinged with suspicion. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
The reporter’s eyes narrow at my words, and her expression hardens as she leans in closer, her breath hot against my ear. “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she says, her voice low and menacing. “The video of you and Frank that’s been making the rounds on the internet.”
I feel a surge of panic rising in my chest, and my mind races as I think about how to respond. I can’t let her know that I’m aware of the video or that I’ve seen the way it’s been spreading like wildfire across the internet and TV channels. I need to play it cool and act as if I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“I have no comment to make on the video,” I say, my voice firm but tinged with a hint of frustration. “It was a private moment, and whoever released it has violated our privacy. We’re considering legal action against the culprit.”
The reporter’s eyes widen at my words, her expression shifting from suspicion to curiosity as she leans closer, her pen poised to take notes. “Interesting,” she murmurs. “But what about your recent marriage to Frank? Some people find it strange that you would marry someone who’s rumored to be a member of the Mafia.”
I feel a knot form in my stomach. How much should I reveal? How much can I trust this reporter? And then, there’s the flower right between my fingers. What is she senses something? I feel caught between a rock and a hard place, torn between my desire to protect myself and my need to set the record straight.
“I don’t see how our marriage is anyone’s business but our own,” I say, my voice tight with frustration. “Frank is a good man, a kind and loving husband. And whatever rumors may be circulating about him are just that—rumors. Baseless accusations with no evidence to back them up.”
The reporter nods, her expression unreadable as she scribbles something in her notebook. “I see,” she says, her voice neutral but tinged with skepticism. “Well, thank you for your time, Mrs. Lisa. I’ll include your comments in my article.”
I watch as she walks away. As I stand there alone in the corridor, I can’t help but feel a sense of unease creeping over me. What if she knows more than she’s letting on? What if she’s onto us, onto me and Frank? The thought sends a shiver down my spine.
I try to blend into the environment even though there are very few people in sight. My heart pounds in my chest as I make my way to the mansion where the funeral is set to take place. With each step, the weight of the bomb nestled within the flower grows heavier, a constant reminder of the danger ahead.
As I approach the mansion’s grand entrance, my pulse quickens with apprehension. But to my surprise, slipping past security proves to be relatively easy. Frank was right—with all the new faces attending the funeral, they don’t bat an eye when I walk past. All but one person.
“Excuse me, miss,” a lady’s voice says, halting my movement.
Did she find me suspicious? Have I been caught?
I try to maintain my composure as I turn around to see the speaker. I don’t recognize her immediately, but she knows who I am. As she walks toward me, I see she is none other than the reporter I walked into earlier. What’s she doing here? Did she follow me?
“Yes, ma’am?” I say curtly, hoping this isn’t what I fear it is.
“We met a couple of minutes ago at the hotel. I was just wondering what you’re doing here,” she says, her smile more daunting than her stature.
First the hotel, and now here? She’s following me. This is bad. Can she know what I’m up to?
