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A shadow falls over the man as someone steps into the stairway. My eyes meet no other than Mr. Black’s. He’s dressed in all black like always. It’s fitting with his last name.
“It … it was an accident,” I stammer. “I don’t um, I don’t even know what just happened.” I run a shaking hand across my face, oddly worried that Mr. Black will somehow think less of me. As if I committed a simple faux pas, not a murder.
He fills up the entire space around the person I just accidentally murdered. After giving me a once over with his gaze, he turns back to my unintended victim and toes him.
“Wait, did he move a little?” A thin wisp of foolish hope springs up inside me. “Maybe he’s still alive? We should call 911. I’ll go call 911.” I start to turn and head back to my apartment.
Mr. Black bends down, picks up the gun, presses it to the back of the man’s head, and pulls the trigger.
I do the only thing my body will let me do. I scream.
3
JACOB
Her cry is gut wrenching as I take the steps two at a time and grab her. Slapping one hand over her mouth, I get behind her and drag her down the hall and into her apartment.
She struggles, but I only grip her tighter as I kick the door shut.
“Margaret.” I shake her a little.
She stops screaming against my palm. I pull her tight against me, her curves distracting me when I need to focus. But damn, she feels so good. The lavender scent I catch every so often when I walk past her in the office is stronger now. It must be her shampoo or something, because I press my nose into her hair and inhale it.
“Listen to me very carefully. People are coming to kill you. That man was a contract killer. There’s a hit out on you. I’m here to stop that from happening. When I release you, I want you to grab anything you need to survive. Prescriptions, those cute blue-rimmed glasses you wear sometimes, things like that. Leave your credit cards, your phone, and your purse. Do you understand? Nod your head if you do.”
It takes a few seconds, but eventually she inhales in a sharp breath through her nose and nods.
“Good. Go.” I release her and step back, even though the last thing I want to do is put distance between us.
She hurries down the hall but stops to turn and look at me, her eyes wide, her skin pale. “Why?”
It’s a good question, but one we don’t have time for. “Go. I’ll tell you when you’re safe.”
“Safe, right,” she whispers and disappears into her bedroom. “I killed a man. Or maybe he killed a man. There’s a dead man on the stairs. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. But Mr. Black is here. He’s here, and he says he wants to keep me safe. This isn’t happening. Is this really happening?” She’s talking in a quiet, yet panicked, voice, but I can hear her moving around packing things.
I look around her apartment. It’s cute and adorable just like her. With one ear on any movement outside her door, I walk over and inspect her family photos. Parents, both of them smiling as she stands between them. The photo is older, and she looks so young and happy, her eyes still that same bright hazel that verges on gold. Then there’s a photo of her with a friend, both of them smiling with their college diplomas in hand. Next to it on the shelf is some sort of large, sparkly stuffed animal. It has a panda body with a horn on top and bears a “Fill-A-Friend by Layla” label. Like I said, cute.
Easing down the hall, I peek into her bedroom as she stuffs a linen bag with some clothes.
“We need to go.” I say it as gently as I can. “They’re coming.” I don’t tell her they’re coming because I didn’t answer my damn phone fast enough. Baines got antsy and called the Brotherhood, so now I’m dealing with multiple assassins trying to show me up and get this kill.
“Okay. I mean,not okay.” She looks toward the stairs as if she can see the hitman’s body through the wall. “That man. He’s dead. I killed him.”
“Ikilled him.” I take her arm and lead her toward her front door. “Not you.”
“Wait.” She rushes to the shelf and grabs the strange stuffed animal, tucking it under one arm. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“I need you to trust me. Can you do that?” I stop outside her front door.
“I-I … Yes.” She gives me a hard nod.
“Good. Stick close to me. Don’t get separated. I will protect you.” I take her hand and use my other one to slowly open her door.
The hall is clear, so I pull her along with me, past the bloody stairwell where a small cadre of neighbors have gathered. Sirens blare in the distance as we hustle toward the back staircase that leads down to the parking garage.
I keep her hand in mine and pull my Glock with my other.
She gasps and shakes her head. “This isn’t real.”
