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I nod.
He pulls his gun away and I let out a long sigh.
“Use your words, Lia.”
“Yes.” My voice is barely a whisper.
“Say, ‘yes, I understand.’”
“Yes…I understand.”
He reaches for me with his other hand and I freeze as his fingers replace his gun, gently gliding over my lips. Flames erupt across my skin, even though his touch is like crossing paths with death. Literally and figuratively.
“These lips will stay shut.”
My throat clogs and I’m unable to make a sound or even nod my head.
He releases me as fast as he grabbed me and a cold wave washes over the earlier fire, dousing it in one harsh sweep.
The bossman tilts his head toward the elevator. “Go.”
For a second, I don’t believe what he’s said, that he’s simply letting me go. I take a tentative step backward, fully expecting him to pounce on me.
He doesn’t make a move to follow.
I back away another two steps, not breaking eye contact. When he doesn’t move, I run to the elevator and punch the call button.
My frantic gaze is still onhim.
The stranger.
The scary fucking stranger.
He remains as I left him, his gun motionless at his side and his attention on me as if he’s contemplating whether or not he should shoot me in the face anyway.
The elevator finally opens and I dash inside, holding my breath and shaking uncontrollably as I hit my floor’s number and code. I miss the first time because of my trembling fingers and scattered thoughts. I have to try again before my passcode is accepted.
As the door finally closes, I slide down to the floor and empty my stomach in the middle of the elevator.
He didn’t kill me. He didn’t put a bullet in my head.
So why do I feel like I just signed my death certificate?
3
Lia
It’s been a week since the day I witnessed three people getting killed, and somehow ended up intact.
A whole damn week of biting my nails, watching my windows, and having an unhealthy obsession with the rear-view mirror whenever I’m driving.
I was supposed to take some downtime before I got back to rehearsing the upcoming ballet, but I’ve been on a rollercoaster ride worse than if we’d had consecutive shows.
On the surface, it might appear to be foolish paranoia. After he let me go, it may seem that I’m only obsessing over it because of the surge of adrenaline I experienced that night.
It’s not paranoia.
Far from it.
