They might get through that steel door. They might not.
Either way, we stare at a body.
Me, at the eyes. So wide. So blind.
Storm is looking in the same space, but I don’t know what he sees.
Reality is different for each of us, isn’t it?
“You did this.” He speaks quietly.
My brows furrow but I don’t look away from the dead. Like if I can endure it, I’m healed somehow. If I can keep focused, if I don’t flinch or gag or vomit, I’m whole.
But what is he saying?
What does he mean?
The laughter grows closer.
The door…it clanks.
Someone flipped the lock.
They had a key?
We hear footsteps on the stairs.
My pulse skyrockets and I start to turn, but Storm tightens his grip on my throat, his forearm barred around it, and he doesn’t let me move.
I glance at him.
He’s staring at the body.
Slowly, I follow his gaze.
Dark, greasy hair. What must have been pale white skin before the blue spread.
He looks vaguely familiar but I don’t know him, do I? I can’t know him…can I? Have I seen his photo recently? Fox showed me Indie, and this guy was in a photo, wasn’t he?
“You did this.” Storm says it again.
He isn’t looking at me.
The footsteps grow closer.
The laughter, it’s jagged and maniacal.
We’re going to get shot in the back.
I won’t let that happen.
I start to throw his arm off me.
He grips me closer, pressing me to him as he turns my way, our bodies flush. I tilt my head back to look up at him, my breasts crushed to his core.
“You.” His eyes flash. “If you come near her?—”
But I don’t get to hear his threat. The footsteps clank closer, heavy breaths too, and Storm shoves me away, swoops down, and when he stands again, he has a gun in his hand.
