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I could take care of myself relatively well, but taking on the guy who had slit someone’s throat?
No.
Hence the closet.
“I don’t know what to tell you. It’s not here,” the voice continued, simmering with frustration.
Footsteps started getting closer.
I relinquished my grip on the childlike hope of invisibility and opened my eyes, watching the shadows move past the slats in the closet door. I caught a glimpse of sandy hair and a moustache. My hand tightened around my pepper spray. I was so not getting killed. Hopefully expired pepper spray and sheer determination would make that a reality.
The steps grew closer, close enough for the sound to jar at my teeth. I glanced down to see cheap shiny shoes peeking through the slats, pointing at the very closet I was doing my best to stay alive in.
I didn’t look up and meet the eyes that would be the last I saw on this earth if my self-defense moves and fight instinct didn’t kick in.
Fear curdled in my stomach as I realized I would be staring my own death in the face in a matter of seconds. I’d heard about some of the horrors my best friends had been subjected to—hell, I’d even been involved in a drive-by shooting. But all that had happened in the safety of Amber, my home, with my family around. My adopted family, sure, but family nonetheless. Only my badass family was miles away and no one would protect me now.
Only me.
I gritted my teeth and blinked away those chocolate eyes that simmered in the air, in goodbye before they melted back into the memories I’d banished them to.
The door rattled.
“Shit, I think I’ve got company, boss,” the voice muttered.
My stomach dropped.
It took a split second to realize that voice was not talking about me, and then my whole body sagged in relief as the shadow left the crack of the door, the sounds of footsteps signaling hope for my survival. The scent of Old Spice lingered, though.
I didn’t let myself move a muscle, nor poke my head out to check if he was gone. Another horror movie trope. I was not succumbing to all of them. I’d camp out in this closet and make a bed out of Burberry if I had to.
I turned rigid at footsteps again on the floor, though they didn’t echo as the heels on the murderer’s dress shoes had. This was a low thump, similar to combat or motorcycle boots.
I had a thing for shoes.
Plus I had ample experience with the thump of motorcycle boots. The soundtrack to my youth, along with Metallica, AC/DC and Harley pipes. I was more of a Bach kind of girl, but of course I never played that at club parties.
The footsteps stopped, encountering what I guessed was a body.
“Fuck,” a masculine voice muttered.
I paused at the sound. This masculine voice was obviously surprised to encounter a dead body, and was therefore not likely to be responsible for it. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t hurt me if I popped out of the closet; even if this was a swanky area of L.A, in a swanky building, it was still L.A.
I knew I couldn’t stay in there forever, but I found myself attached to the small space and the illusion of safety it offered. And the fact that I was out of view of the seriously gory dead body. I wasn’t exactly squeamish, but seeing someone’s neck bone exposed had me grateful I’d skipped lunch.
There was a short silence. “Yeah, Kelt? We’ve got a problem. Big one. Better get the cops over here now.”
My body jerked? Kelt?
No. It couldn’t be. Although the accent of the man speaking had my stomach tingling. Surely it was a coincidence. There were a lot of people who had accents that weren’t connected to him.
I had bigger things to think about right then anyway. My breathing evened at the mention of the cops, and I found myself assured that I wouldn’t be getting murdered. At least a girl could dream.
I had been cursing the fact that my thirtieth birthday was haunting me with its proximity, but now I’d welcome that day coming, despite the promise of crow’s-feet. That’s what Botox was for.
Courage, Lucy. You’ve been through worse than this.
Inner me was right. I had been through worse than this. I’d grown up around worse. And better. And I was stronger and tougher than this, to be cowering in a closet.
I gingerly opened the door. “Please don’t murder me. Please don’t murder me,” I whispered under my breath.
I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the light; the closet had been almost pitch black. My heels echoed on the wooden floor as I stepped onto it. Once the black spots had left my vision, I threw my hands in the air, palms out.
“Don’t shoot me,” I requested, my voice low and even. The tone people used when they were approaching slightly menacing-looking dogs who hadn’t decided whether they were going to maul the person or lick them. I reasoned the same tone was to be used when surprising someone handling a firearm who’d just discovered a dead body.
