Page 44 of Antihero

He heard her collapse—the slap of her palm against the floor, the soft thump of her body.

Silence.

More silence.

And then a deep wail, a pained gasp, a brief paralyzed silence. And then keening.

Evan squatted outside the door.

He’d heard so much across his operational years, but he’d never heard sounds like the sounds she was making. His stomach twisted. Measuring his breaths, he rubbed his palm across the top of his head, realized he was doing it, stopped.

He summoned the Fourth Commandment: Never make it personal. Useless. He discarded it, too.

The sobs kept on.

Quietly, he lowered himself down and sat with his back to the door. The hall smelled damp, wet boots and soggy carpet.

He waited. Waited some more.

She quieted. He could hear her wet breathing. Her fingernails scraping lightly across the floor. Then silence.

More waiting.

“Are you still there?” Her voice—hoarse but steadier.

“I am.”

“The cross fell. From my door. I would like the pieces.”

“Okay.”

A moment later, there was a jangling of the chain. The door opened a gap. Her hand squirmed through. He passed her the two wooden pieces.

The door closed. Relocked.

A gentle thunk. Her forehead leaning against the far side of the door? Once again he could make out her breathing.

“What…” A screeching intake of air interrupted her, an echo of a sob. When she spoke again, she’d gathered herself. “… do I do now?”

“Maybe a sip of water?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

Footsteps trailed away.

A full two minutes passed.

Footsteps trailed back.

Again her voice came through the door. “Now … now what?”

“Medical attention would be helpful.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t want anyone looking at me.”

“Okay.” For a time he breathed along with her. “Are you cold?”

“Yes. I am cold. So very cold.”