But no. I thought showing up in front of the apartment of a woman who suffered from PTSD bleeding and dizzy was a great idea.
What the fucking fuck are you, doing, Operative Seven?
I didn't really know. But I was definitely here because of her, because now that it got bad, I didn't want to be at the compound, listening to Father's sermon. I wanted to be somewhere warm.
And, oddly, the only warmth in my life was Kimmy, the woman I hardly knew, the woman I'd met a few weeks ago.
29 kimmy
Stress-baking wasn't my thing, but I'd been on edge these past few days after the phone conversation with Seven and had been sleeping like shit.
One day I wanted to pass out in the middle of a work task, and then next it was insomnia. Today was the latter.
Trying my hand at recreating Margaret's pie recipe seemed like a good idea to exhaust myself, and I was elbow-deep in flour when the doorbell rang.
I wasn't expecting anyone, even less so at this hour.
My heartbeat stuttered first, then sped up. I was suddenly grateful for the new lock.
Slowly, I rinsed my hands in the sink and wiped them on the nearest towel.
The bell rang again, insistent.
The logical part of my brain spun up, wondering if this was a late delivery. The rest of my brain—the chunk that had been rewired by the last three years of constant anxiety—screamed that it was a bad idea to even answer the door.
Call 911, Kimmy.
But my gut told me something entirely different. If someone wanted to hurt me or scare me, they wouldn't ring my bell.
I headed over and checked the peephole.
The upper portion of the hallway was painted in that jaundiced apartment-building beige and the lower one was glossy black, so the figureslumped against the wall outside my door almost bled into the darker paint, looking like it'd grown out from there and into the beige.
It took me a second to realize what I was seeing.
Seven.
He was hunched, one hand pressed to his side. His other hand gripped the helmet, and his eyes were shut tight, lashes fused together by sweat. The lower half of his face was covered by a black bandana.
My heart, already on a slow boil, tried to punch through my sternum.
I reached for the door chain and asked automatically even though I knew the answer, "Who is it?"
He didn't reply right away. He lifted his head, turned it to look at the peephole, eyelids stuttering, and husked out, "You know."
I hesitated, counted to three, then undid the chain and turned the deadbolt, cracking the door open, but the next detail almost made me slam it closed again.
There was blood. Not dramatic Hollywood spray, but enough of it. A dark stain blooming under his hand, soaked through the fabric of his pants, trailing down his boot.
A few drops had already landed on my gray welcome mat.
The sight did something to my brain—made everything run in slow motion, like the blood itself was syrup.
"Jesus," I said. It wasn't a prayer. It just came out.
He tumbled forward, braced himself on the doorframe, and responded in the same scratchy voice, "Not quite."
I looked past him into the hallway—empty, thank God. Then back at him. I didn't think, just acted.
