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#06
I've had the Devilin my life long enough by now to know that it's absolutely no coincidence when my phone rings the exact time I reach the address he's texted me.
Riiiiiiing.
It's my first time using wireless buds, and I don't realize my volume needs adjustment until I nearly go deaf as my phone starts blaring out directly to my ear.
Ouch!
Never putting my cellphone on silent is the Devil's new rule, but since I don't like having people look at me because of my phone ringing, I'll need to quickly get a hang of these stupid wireless things before I go deaf.
Riiiiiiing.
I fumble for the controls, and I barely avoid missing the Devil's call for the second time.
Cutting it quite close, aren't we?
"I'm sorry, sir."
Ring the doorbell, please.
I do as asked, and the Devil thanks me in his usual disguised voice. I still find it surreal how the Devil seems to have the loveliest manners every time he talks to me on the phone, but maybe this, too, is part of his plan to keep me from ever regaining my bearings. It's hard to remember he's a cold-blooded killer when he's being so gentlemanly.
My uneasy gaze swings back to the three-story building in front of me. Black slate walls, heavily tinted windows, and double steel doors that make me feel I'm about to enter a vault. But since there's no commercial signage that points to it being a bank, curiosity eventually gets the better of me, and I hear myself ask, "Is this someone's house?"
Most days, it is.
Uh-oh.
I don't think I like the sound of that. I've watched my share of crime thrillers, and it always starts with the protagonist (me) doing something stupid (totally me) and next thing they know, they're already working for the drug cartel and caught between gang wars and—-
Click.
The sound of the doors automatically unlocking interrupts my thoughts.
Go on.
I take a deep breath and brace myself for the worst, but all that greets me is a foyer with the same black slate walls and chessboard tiles.
The owner of the place is an acquaintance of mine, Lance Perry.
Perhaps you've heard of him?
"I don't think so?"
He's the official photographer for various European royal families.
My heart drops to my stomach. Does he really think his acquaintance's credentials will make any difference?
You don't seem pleased to hear this.
If I needed more proof that the Devil's watching me again, that would be it, but right now that's the least of my worries.
Why?
