“Asher, what’s going on?”
When he raises his eyes to mine, I want to go to him, but my instinct keeps me in place.
Something is seriously wrong here, Ella.
“I still need to tell you something,” he says and clears his throat. “But I need you to try and stay calm. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Oh, fuck this. Get your gun.
I back away. “Why would I think you’d hurt me?”
There’s a gun in the desk by the balcony doors. I edge back, keeping my eyes fixed on Asher’s, wondering how this night has turned so quickly.
He looks so sad that I’m moving away. He looks broken.
Fuck him. Trust your gut, Ella.
“I was sent here to get something from Barnaby,” he says. “He had something that dangerous people want.”
Dangerous how?
Whether it’s my instincts, my writer’s brain, or my overactive imagination, I suddenly feel cold. “Where is Barnaby, Asher?”
Asher stares at me, a war in his eyes. “He’s dead.”
Oh. Fuck. Me.
Shivers work their way down my spine, and I whisper, “How?”
He pauses. He pauses and he shouldn’t, because the answer should be simple. Barnaby is at his mom’s, or maybe he finally got arrested, or— “I had to do it, Ella.”
No. No, no, no…
“No. You’re joking. This is a joke.” I try to smile and pray for a punchline. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
Asher shakes his head, the action barely perceptible. “I’m sorry.”
The gun, Ella.
I pull open the drawer and grab the weapon, flicking off the safety and pointing it at him. “Get the fuck out.”
He doesn’t even look at the barrel. “Ella, please. You know me. You know I’m not a bad person.”
“I thought I knew you. I don’t knowshitabout you,” I say. He moves closer, and I pull back the hammer. “I don’t want to shoot you, but I will, Asher.”
I will. I never aim a gun unless I mean to use it, that’s what my dad taught me, and right now, I’m in the room with a murderer. A killer. A guy I had in my bed minutes ago. A guy who made me feel good and built my bookshelves and rubbed my back when I felt sick.
How had he done this?
“Ella, I know you’re scared?—”
“I’m not scared; I’m fucking angry,” I say, blinking back hot tears. “I’m angry I didn’t see right through you.”
“I would never hurt you.” He sounds so sincere that I almost crumble. “It’s just a job, that’s all. I did it to survive. But I don’t want to do it anymore. I want to get out; I don’t want to hurt more?—”
I tremble. “You’ve killed more people?”
He falters, but the truth seems to win out. “I’m paid to do it.”
