Page 20 of Blind Prophet

Lewis turns, eager to comply.

The hallway blurs. The ache behind my temples dulls. I force my limbs forward. There’s no point in hiding from the end.

The end is the price we pay for love.

God, I’m such a fucking tool.

A uniformed man stands in front of a closed door. He swings wide to face us.

Did they lock her in the room? What the fuck did I say to these guys on the phone?

“Mr. Moore,” he says, shoulders back, arms straight along his sides.

Christ, you’d think I’m a squadron leader.

My throat tightens, and saliva pools in my mouth. I force myself to swallow and stand tall.

If he speaks, I don’t hear him. A whooshing sound fills my ears. My peripheral vision remains a blur.

I brush his hand away from the knob and twist.

She’s a silhouette, only this time, I’m with her, on the same side of the window.

I fumble on the wall for a light switch.

Golden light fills in the details.

Light blonde hair falls below her shoulders, skimming her breasts. When I met her, it reached the curve of her lower back.

Her elegant black pantsuit and white silk blouse fit her perfectly. Strictly professional. The black, square, no-nonsense pumps round out the outfit.

I expected nothing less. This is a business call, after all. A long-overdue meeting to settle affairs from the past.

My gaze drifts from her short, pale pink nails to the prominent gold decorative band on her right index finger, to her left, ringless hand.

My chest quivers with the hit of the Vicodin.

The solitary diamond pendant hanging demurely above the singular unfastened button catches my attention. I zero in on the diamond for confirmation. It’s the necklace her parents gave her for college graduation.

Red splotches dot her neck and chest, marring her unblemished pale skin.

Is she nervous?

With a deep inhale, I lift my gaze to her pale pink lips, over the nose that she believes is too long, but that is refined and fitting on her heart-shaped face, and I meet her light blue eyes head-on, brushing aside the constriction in my chest.

“Caroline,” I say.

That’s a weak greeting.

The gold ring glimmers in the light when she rests her hand on the extended suitcase handle.

Her thumb strokes the plastic.

She looks behind me, over my shoulder. I follow her gaze.

Lewis and the other employee fill the doorway.

“Thank you,” I say to them. “We’re fine now.”

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