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But for some unknown reason, she doesn’t just rob me of breath but of speech. Noah Nash. 37 years old. Speechless because of this slip of a girl.
Her brother’s gonna kill me.
And I’m not even sure I give a damn.
2
NORA
Ithink I’m about to have a heart attack or a stroke. Is 22 years old too young for either of them? Not sure.
But my chest hurts, and it feels like a massive boulder has settled on my stomach. I watch a guy in a truck slow down and stop in front of me, and my fear turns to panic.
Something is choking me, making my breath come in short, shallow gasps. A vise on my throat. Cold sweat trickling down my spine. The world spins, and my vision starts graying on the edges.
Oh God.
The guy—I think he’s a guy—says something but stays in his truck. Good. That’s good. I can still run. I don’t know how far I’ll make it, but I sure as hell won’t go down without a fight.
I don’t hear what he just said, but I choke out, “W-who are you?”
It’s a miracle I’m able to form words because everything starts to get blurry. Am I gonna die? Is he gonna kill me? Will this be my end? I haven’t even lived. Oh, Lord. I haven’t even fully experienced life. Don’t know what a kiss feels like. Don’t know how it is to fall in love. Don’t know?—
“Nora.”
I blink and he’s right in front of me. How did he get here so fast? I can’t see him clearly, but I know he’s huge. Like huge huge. Bigger than my brother and my brother is 6’2 and built like a door.
I can’t outrun this guy. I can’t even fight him. And if I die right here and right now, what will happen to Keith? Will he blame himself? Probably. It will break him for sure. I mean, he can be a pain in the ass sometimes, but I love that guy and he loves me.
My skin is clammy, and a silent scream builds in my chest. I can’t?—
“Nora!”
He’s doing that thing with his mouth where he’s saying something, but it comes out muffled to me.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
Okay, that part I hear. And sure, mister, that’s how all murder documentaries start, right after everyone the victim knows says they light up the room with their smile. Will my family and friends say that about me?
Maybe the good thing about death is I don’t have to pay for my subscriptions anymore. I don’t have to worry about all my plants dying on me.
“Jesus, are you about to have a seizure? Do I need to call 911?”
That does it.
Everything snaps back into focus, and I feel and see everything—his big hands on my arms, squeezing and shaking me lightly, a stubble on his chin, sharp jawline, thick eyebrows drawn together, chocolate brown eyes filled with concern.
Concern?
Wait a minute…
How does he know my name?
“W-who are you?” I ask like a broken record.
“Noah. I already told you. Your brother called me. Keith didn’t tell you I was coming?”
Relief washes over me in waves, and I sag against the open hood, dropping the flashlight and pressing my palms against my eyes. “Oh thank God. For a minute, I thought you were a serial killer.”
