Act normal.
How am I supposed to do that when I can still feel the gun in my hand, still hear the horrible crack of bullets and the thud of that man’s body hitting the ground?
Handing in my notice is still my goal as I take the bus to work, but by the time I get there, Peter’s warning in my mind repeats like a fog horn as I approach the door and have Jenni inside buzz me in. I’m about to tell her that I lost my ID badge, but sheimmediately launches into a frantic recount of what happened to her and the others last week.
My morning passes in a complete blur. I’m constantly torn between horror stories that verge on exaggeration from Jenni and Midge as they detail the worst day of their lives and constant reassurance that I’m so lucky to have been off that day and how grateful I must be that fate kept me away.
Smiling at my coworkers sickens me.
Nodding along to their stories and acting sympathetic sickens me more.
Mid-morning, I have to rush away from my desk and spend ten minutes throwing up nothing but acid in the bathroom because the sheer weight of guilt is eating me up from the inside. I stare at every customer fearing they might be a cop, jump at every noise as if each one is an accusation of my involvement, and sweat through two blouses by the time the afternoon rolls around.
“Zira, Oh, my God.” Jenni leans over the counter and places her warm hand over mine. “Are you okay? You look super unwell.”
I nod and tuck a sweaty strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s just a bit hot in here, that’s all. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” The open concern on her face is like a blade to the heart.
“I’m sure. You know me, never drinking enough water, and the heat gets like this.” My awkward laugh sounds too high-pitched to my own ears, and warmth suddenly flushes up my neck and over my cheeks. It must be visible given how Jenni’s eyes widen as she stares at me.
“I’ll get you some water,” she says, patting my hand.
She darts away from my counter, and I drop my head to stare down at the array of bracelets and expensive rings glistening back at me from under the glass. Each one reflects my guilt back at me, as if I can see a thousand miniature Ziras all shaking their heads in disappointment. Tension pulls up my spine and a dull throb echoes in my skull.
I can’t do this.
I really can’t.
“So sorry, sir!” comes Jenni’s distant voice. In my blurred peripheral, I glimpse her bumping into someone before my eyes close, and I exist for a few long seconds in the turbulent darkness of my own mind.
Peter says this will get better with time.
I’m not sure I believe him.
As I stand there with both hands braced on the display case and my head down, something moves in front of me and the darkness behind my eyes deepens as something blocks out the light. Anticipating Jenni, I slowly lift my head and open my eyes with a thank you poised on my tongue.
But it’s not Jenni.
Every part of me locks in place and my mouth falls open as I gaze up at a tall, broad-shouldered man with black, tightly waved hair and piercing gray eyes. His beard is shorter than it was the last time I saw him, hugging his face more like a warm shadow than anything else. Small piercings in each ear glitter in the light as he watches me while his hands clasp together at his middle,his arms free from the heavy, dark coat that rests around his shoulders.
The tension in my head turns into a roar and the ground grows unstable.
“B–Bradley?”
6
BRADLEY
The mysterious woman who shot me actually works for the store she robbed. It’s beautifully ironic. After Valentina put my description out in the world, the first thing Damian did was check all employees, and lo and behold, the keycard that was reported stolen two days before the robbery belongs to the exact description of the woman I saw.
Zirconia Roberts.
All color drains from her face when she lifts her head and locks eyes with me, and a weak shade of gray replaces it. If not for my request to handle this personally, Damian would have killed her as soon as they found out she was still living at her address.
Everything about this reeks of rookie, arrogant thieves who have no idea who they stole from, and given that Zirconia turned up to work acting like nothing’s happened, it’s clear she has no clue whom she works for.
“Good afternoon.” I smile politely while Zirconia remains locked in place, staring at me like she’s seen a ghost. Her striking blueeyes gleam like two beautiful sapphires and her dark hair’s lost some of its sleek shine I recall from the night she shot me.
