Page 7 of House of Cards

I scream when he brings the flame up to my face, as heat surges over my cheek. It’s so close the flame’s a blur, so close I can feel my eye dry up.

“S-Stop! Stop!” I don’t even recognize the mangled plea that slips out of my mouth.

He chuckles again, his hand darting to the side.

A bright orange flame flashes in front of my face, followed by the stench of singed hair. I’m about to scream again when he slaps me, dousing the flame and startling me into silence.

He releases me, and when I see the terrifying smile on his face, I nearly pee myself.

“Get me my money, or I’ll burn down this diner. With you inside.”

I stop breathing, waiting for him to crack a smile and tell he’s just joking. Instead, he doubles down.

“After me and my boys have had our fun.”

He lingers at the doorway, like he’s watching me soak in his threat. Taking his time, he slips his gun back behind his jeans. Adjusting it, then his junk, his eyes never leaving mine.

If he’s waiting for me to cry, it ain’t gonna happen.

That well ran dry months ago.

When he steps out of the office, I hurry after him, keeping him in sight. Making sure that he actuallyleaves.

I expect him to go out the front, the way we came in, but he goes into the kitchen. So I follow him, my heart kicking against my ribs every time he slips out of sight behind a wall or an appliance.

Then I’m staring down the short passage that leads to the back door, watching as he slides back the dead bolt and lets himself out into the alley, like he’s done it a thousand times before.

I should have called the cops, reported the car.

Now I’m on this psycho’s radar, and I don’t have a fucking clue what to do about it.

My hands are still shaking as I slide the deadbolts back into place.

Two hundred grand. Two weeks.

And a psycho who knows where I live and work.

I stumble back to the office, closing and locking the door behind me like it’ll offer some kind of protection. Fumble my cellphone from my apron. Stare at it.

Who could I even call for help, if not the cops?

Franco’s been MIA for years. Mom’s gone. My college friends have scattered to the winds, building their Instagram-perfect lives while I’ve been stuck here trying to keep this diner afloat. And Ricky’s the one who got me into this mess.

Fuck that.

I’ll be damned if I’m letting him off the hook.

I tap on Ricky’s contact, my finger tapping furiously against the desk as I wait for it to ring.

“If you know who this is, then you know what to do! Peace out!”

BEEP

Voicemail.

Color me shocked.

“You fucking asshole!” I scream into the phone. “Some tattooed psycho just held me at gunpoint because you owe him money! Call me backimmediately, or I swear to God I’m selling everything you own to cover this shit.” I pause for effect, but also to breathe. “Starting with your baseball card collection!”

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