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Chapter One
Speak of the Devil
Britney King
Prologue
Sometimes people do bad things for good reasons. If there’s a message in any of this, surely that’s it. I am aware—suddenly hyperaware—those reasons will probably result in the unthinkable. So I guess whatever my intentions were at the start, they hardly matter anymore.
He isn’t supposed to be here. But then, neither am I.
Now the only thing that separates us is a wall, and if I don’t do what he wants, he’s going to wind up on the wrong side of it. I’ve made a lot of mistakes but letting that happen won’t be one of them. I suppose the only thing left to do now is minimize the damage and save what can be saved.
This is why my heart is racing; this is why a grapefruit-sized lump has formed in my throat, and while my breath is slow and steady, my knees wobble just enough to let me know they aren’t sure about my decision either. But when you’re summoned in this manner, it doesn’t matter whether you’re sure.
If I don’t come out, the text told me he’s coming in.
It matters not whether I want to comply—that choice was taken away long ago. If you asked me to pinpoint when exactly, even if you held a knife to my throat and demanded I tell you, I’m not sure I could. Maybe it happened slowly. Maybe it happened all at once. Who’s to say?
He’ll want me to feel remorse. I hardly feel anything at all. Controlling your emotions isn’t so hard when you’ve been trained not to have any. You’d be surprised how natural it becomes to override them entirely. The mind is a powerful thing. The body less so, when it comes right down to it. This is apparent in the way my palm coats the door handle with sweat. Nerves equip humans to survive; they can’t be overwritten like the mind, only managed.
I take a deep breath, roll my neck, and pull the door open quietly—not too much, just enough for me to slide through.
As I take one last glance at the past and step into the future, I consider what I’ll lead with. Surely not pleasantries. An apology?
It’s probably too late for that.
Sorry isn’t going to cut it.
I could ask how he found me, but I already know. Instalook.
I guess what they say is true: dopamine and serotonin, if mixed with other things, make you sloppy. My mistake. I’ve been afforded a lot of privileges in my position, but stupidity isn’t one of them.
Somewhere along the way, I slipped up, and now the option to run—the option to keep running—is clearly no longer on the table.
Life can change on a dime. He told me that the first time we met.
I didn’t believe it back then. At least not in the way he meant it. I wasn’t the only one. No one believed it. Why would they? It was easier to walk around with our false sense of security and our blanketed smiles, our veiled truths and half-hearted lies.
But now he’s here. Now I’m passing from one room to another, and now he’s standing in front of me. Now his eyes are lingering in places I wish they wouldn’t, and now I am probably about to die.
“Well, well. Look at you.”
My throat constricts at the sound of his voice, the familiarity in it causes bile to rise, washing that grapefruit-sized lump away.
He steps forward, reaches forward, and touches my hair. “Huh.” He smiles. “It’s different…”
It’s not the only thing. Everything is different. He made sure of that. They all did. Yet, in all that training, they seem to have left out one very important piece. They didn’t tell me how to plant my feet or how to force myself to stay put when every fiber of my being was telling me to jet. Therein lies the problem.
Even now, I’m surveying my surroundings in search of a way out. To anyone else, in any other circumstance, it would appear that we’re in someone’s rich grandmother’s living room, but it’s un-lived in—a stage set, down to the bowl of lilies on the coffee table. Another hotel room that’s made to look like home but isn’t.
