I wrestle with my conscience. My heart demands I do everything I can for Prescott and Leo, and my family, because none of us ever wanted anything to do with world war or world domination or world affairs in general.
Unlike Alessio, we’re ordinary people who live ordinary lives, and that’s how we like it. Sadly, no amount of reasoning changes the fact that I must take whatever chance I can to deliver the plastic piece the sadist and company (because it’s an entire organization) want and get out of this mess. I’m not like them, or Alessio, for that matter, and I can’t handle this situation on a day-to-day basis.
The pressure they apply will crack me, and then I’ll be useless to Prescott.
Alessio is with Leo for the evening. I told him to give me some privacy while I call my little brother, who gets out of school at two twenty in the afternoon. I wait until two thirty Louisville time and lock the bedroom door before turning on the dim closet light and going inside.
I close the closet door and look up. I can see the golden gun.
My hand shakes as I stretch my arm up and rise on my toes to reach the gun. I grab the base of the grip with two fingers and tug gently. It doesn’t move. I tug harder, and the holster, along with both guns, topples over my head.
Defensively, I raise my arms, and the butt of one gun bounces off my elbow and bangs against the closet door before finally hitting the floor.
If it had gone off, I might have died. See? I’m not made for this.
My heart pounds against my ribs as I stare at the wall, listening for Alessio’s footsteps. If that man heard the noise and thinks I’m hurt, no lock will stop him from barging in here, I’m certain of it.
Luckily for me, Alessio’s across the suite with Leo.
I exhale the breath I’ve been holding.
Got lucky this time. I can’t let it happen again. Can’t bang and make noise so that Alessio’s forced to check in on me.
I wipe the cold sweat from my brow and sit down cross-legged on the floor next to the holster. Carefully, I pop one of the holster’s straps and then, pinching the gun between two fingers like it’ll bite me, I withdraw it and rest it on my lap.
From my pocket, I take out the screwdriver and set it in front me. But before I get started, I pull out my phone. I look around for something to prop the phone up with. On my left, I spot a small pocket on the back of Alessio’s suitcase. I roll the suitcase in front of me, then slide the phone into the pocket. I dial my aunt.
Prescott picks up the video call.
“Hey.” I swallow a rock in my throat, but my eyes tear up anyway.
“Hey, Lake.” His brown eyes widen as he holds up a painting. “Look at my impression of the fall.” It’s a Picasso-like splattering of red and brown paint on a small, rectangular canvas.
“It’s beautiful.”
“I’m keeping it for your collection. Oh, hey, did you hear Uncle J fell down the steps?”
“Yeah.”
My little brother goes on. “We’re on our way to see him now and have dinner with him. We don’t know if he wants burgers or chicken, ’cause he’s not answering.”
I’m not sure what my aunt told Prescott about my uncle. “He’s probably sleeping.”
Prescott bites his lip “Uncle J always said he needs to fix the middle step. Remember?”
No. “Yeah, I remember.”
“But some people don’t listen until they get hurt.”
“Amen, Pres. Amen,” my aunt says.
I fit the screwdriver into the screw and turn. “Tell me about your teachers. Tell me about your friends. Are people nice to you? They better be nice to you.”
“Everyone is nice. Well, not Laney. She makes fun of my backpack.” Prescott tells me about the school and friends and activities he wants to get involved with.
I work the grip of the gun and manage to remove it. Taped to the inside is a plastic piece about the size of my fingernail. I peel it away and start to screw the grip back on.
“I miss you, Lake,” Prescott says.
