He spins me around. Before I can process the movement, his arm snakes around my neck from behind.
He pulls me back against his chest, the crook of his elbow pinching the world down to a narrow black tunnel.
I gasp, my hands flying up to claw at his forearm, but he is locked in tight. It isn’t painful, but the effect is instant. The world begins to gray at the edges.
“Don’t fight,” he whispers against my hair. “It’s over.”
A wave of blind panic hits me. I’m dying. This is it. I’m going to die in a museum next to a vase of hydrangeas. I will never get out from under him. I will never build a life that is mine. My father will never say he is proud of me. He will just be angry that I died in such a messy way.
My vision begins to spot with black dots. My legs feel heavy, like they are filled with lead. The room starts to tilt. The sounds of the museum—the hum of the AC, the rain against the windows—begin to sound like they are underwater.
I sag against him, my fight draining away with my consciousness.
As the darkness creeps in, there’s movement in my peripheral vision. The service door at the end of the hallway bursts open.
Men swarm into the room.
There are four of them. They are dressed in black tactical gear, wearing balaclavas. They move silently, efficiently, like a hive of insects. They don’t look like thugs; they look like soldiers. They carry equipment cases and chemical sprayers.
His chest rumbles against my back as he addresses the lead soldier.
“Target neutralized,” he says, his voice flat and authoritative. “And we have a package.”
Package. I am the package.
He shifts his grip, pulling me tighter against his chest.
“Sanitize the room,” he commands the rest of the team. “Scrub everything. The body. The blood. The glass.”
The men move instantly, no questions asked.
My eyes are heavy. I can barely keep them open. I watch through a darkening tunnel of vision as the men go to work.
One of them grabs the dead man’s legs. Another grabs his arms. They lift him effortlessly, shoving him into a large black duffel bag. They zip it up, erasing him from existence.
Another man is spraying something on the floor—a foaming chemical that turns the red blood into a pale pink froth. He wipes it away with a specialized cloth, leaving the tile gleaming white.
And then, the last thing I see before the darkness takes me completely is the fourth man.
He walks over to the center table.
He picks up the vase of Asiatic Lilies.
“Take the flowers,” the monster commands from above me. “Take everything. Leave nothing behind.”
The man nods and drops the lilies into a trash bag.
A hysterical, bubbling laugh tries to rise in my throat, but I am too weak to let it out.
He’s taking the lilies.
I came here to save the Senator from the pollen. I came here to save my father’s legacy. I risked everything to remove those flowers.
And now, the killer is doing it for me.
The irony is the last thing I feel. The monster tightens his grip one last time.
“Sleep,” he commands.
