The Killer.
He has dark hair, cut short. His face is hard and angular, composed of sharp lines and shadows that look carved from granite. But it’s his eyes that paralyze me. They are black voids. There is no panic in them. No fear. No remorse.
He looks at the dead body, the shattered vase, and ultimately, at me.
He tilts his head slightly. He isn’t looking at me like a man who has been caught committing a crime. He is looking at me like a man who has found a loose thread on an expensive suit jacket. An annoyance. An imperfection. Something to be snipped.
The realization hits me. He is going to kill me.
He takes a step toward me.
There isn’t any rush in him. That’s what breaks me. He already knows how this ends.
That single movement breaks the spell. My survival instinct kicks in, overriding the shock, overriding the “good girl” programming.
Run.
I scramble backward, my sneakers slipping on the wet floor, crunching on the broken glass. I turn toward the door, my hands grasping for the frame.
Even at my fastest, I’m too slow.
He doesn’t run; he blurs. He covers the distance in a heartbeat, moving so quickly my brain doesn’t catch up until he’s on me. He moves like smoke, like a shadow detaching itself from the wall.
A hard, heavy arm slams around my waist, lifting me off my feet. The impact knocks the wind out of me. He spins me around, bashing my back against the dark wood paneling of the wall. The force rattles my teeth and sends a shockwave of pain down my spine.
I open my mouth to shout, to summon the noise I should have made seconds ago, but a large hand clamps over it, sealing my lips shut.
His palm is warm, rough, and strong.
He pins me there, his body pressing mine into the wood. He is solid muscle, radiating heat. Immovable, like a cliff face. He smells of rain, expensive leather, and the metallic tang of gunpowder.
“Quiet,” he commands.
His voice is a low rumble against my ear.
I stare up at him, my chest heaving against his. I can’t get a full breath. His palm is clamped over my mouth, his thumb hard at my cheek, forcing my lips shut. I claw at his wrist,my fingernails digging into his skin, scraping uselessly. It’s like trying to fight a statue. He doesn’t flinch.
He leans in close, his dark eyes searching mine. He seems confused. Like he is waiting for a counter-strike—a hidden blade, a knee to the groin, a professional move.
But I have stopped fighting. I’m frozen, staring into the face of death. My voice is locked in a box inside my chest, and I have lost the key.
His hand moves from my mouth to my throat. His thumb rests against my pulse point. He can feel my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest.
“Who sent you?” he demands in a dangerous growl. “Are you with Volkov?”
I shake my head frantically, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes, blurring my vision. I try to speak, but his hand is too tight.
Volkov? Who is Volkov?
“I... flowers,” I choke out, the words barely audible, a whisper of air. “Just... the flowers.”
He glances down at the shattered white hydrangeas on the floor, the petals mixing with the water and the blood. Then he looks back at me, unmoved.
He doesn’t believe me.
Why would he? It’s midnight. I’m standing over a dead body in a locked museum.
“Wrong answer,” he says coldly.
