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“OK.” That’s all he says.
Four minutes from the turnaround.
“Will?”
“Yes?”
“Can you tell Aziz that it’s OK to take me home?” Despite the pep talk I’ve given myself, I still shudder out the last part of the sentence since I’m trying not to cry.
Three minutes.
“Will?”
“It’s safer for you at the condo.”
“I need to be home. I need to think. I can’t do that if … ” The constriction in my throat stops the rest of my words.
Two minutes.
“Please, Will.”
“Hand the phone to Aziz,” he says.
I do as Will asks. Aziz says hello, followed by a series of “yes, sir.”
We drive past the turnaround point, and I release my breath, feeling relief and grief in equal measure. Aziz hands my phone to me.
“Thank you,” I say. There’s no reply. “Will?” Silence. “Are you there?”
He’s hung up.
I don’t even try to hide my emotions. I allow myself to cry. Bruce and Aziz speak quietly, maybe to drown me out. The only acknowledgment I get is a hand reaching back with a travel pack of tissues.
In the city, Bruce walks me to the door of our basement suite.
“Can I come in? I need to update you on what’s going to happen now.”
I’d texted Georgia to let her know I was on my way home and that I’d need her to not ask any questions until I had some time to process.
She’s at the door when I open it.
“Sweetie, I am so, so sorry,” she says, pulling me into her arms. She notices Bruce and releases her grip, turning off her mom voice. “Oh, I didn’t realize we had company.”
“Georgia, this is Bruce, one of Will’s many bodyguards. Bruce, my only sister, Georgia. Excuse me, I need to pee.”
I leave the two standing at the open door. Since our apartment is so small, I overhear Bruce telling Georgia he needs to come in to explain some things. She asks if he’d like tea. He says no, but a minute later changes his mind.
I’m stalling, not eager to hear anything related to Will Power or the reason I’m a person of interest to bad guys and what that means for my freedom.
“You OK in there?” Georgia taps the bathroom door after a few minutes.
I come out. Shrug. Curl into my fancy chair.
The long and short of my situation is that I will have a shadowy man within spitting—or shooting—distance, twenty-four hours a day, until the threat has been neutralized. That’s what Bruce tells us. And what that means in practical terms is that either he or Aziz will be in my business when I’m out and about. A third guard will take some overnight shifts parked outside our building.
And the best part? Our apartment is now bugged so that while the guys can’t actually see me in my bed, they can hear what’s happening in my home.
To her credit, Georgia is less annoyed than I am by the intrusion on our privacy. I excuse myself once we’ve been told what the rules are for me coming and going. Georgia and Bruce continue their conversation, which I don’t hear from my position in my bed, head buried under pillows, as I will the last day to be a nightmare I wake from soon.
