Page 8 of Faded Rhythm

“I’m not here to kill you. I’m here to warn you.”

My vision blurs as my knees buckle. I slide to the floor, landing in a heap of anger, confusion, and terror. My hands tremble uncontrollably in my lap as I manage to plead once again.

“Please don’t kill me.”

He stares at me. “I just said I’m not here to kill you.”

I don’t say what I’m thinking, which is that I’d sooner trust Michael Myers than I would him. At least Mike is clear in his agenda.

He exhales, watching me as he leans against the doorframe.

“If I wanted you dead, you’d already be gone.”

I don’t know what to believe. My mind is splintered in a million pieces. But one thing is certain: I saw murder in his eyes when I turned around downstairs.

Part of me wishes he’d already done it. This terror I feel, it’s becoming unbearable. My stomach lurches again, my eyes water, my nose runs…I know I look a mess. Not that it matters how I look…

I turn away, not wanting him to see me like this.

“What do you want?” I say softly. “You can have anything in here. You can have my bank cards. My husband has cash in his safe—“

“I know exactly what your husband has, Sable. He’s the one who sent me here. He’s already given me plenty of cash.”

He crouches to my level, draping his gun arm over his knee. “Why does he want you dead?”

I shake my head to clear it, still confused. Bewildered. None of this is making sense. I don’t understand why this man is still here, still talking to me. Why hasn’t hedoneanything?

I sniff, wiping my nose with the hem of the pants that are dangling from a hanger next to me. His cologne penetrates for the first time, something fresh and masculine. I close my eyes as a wave of nausea washes over me.

“I’m gonna throw up,” I moan. “Please, just…do whatever you’re gonna do.”

“Come on in the bathroom,” he says as he stands. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin this nice closet.”

I look up to see his free arm outstretched, his hand extended, his finger curving once to beckon me. It feels insanely dangerous, but I have no choice. I’m too weak to stand on my own, so I put my hand in his and let him pull me to my feet.

He’s strong.

As I make my way to the toilet, he backs up to the bathroom door, standing guard while I drop to my knees, close my eyes, and gag.

Something deep down inside of me doesn’t want this man to see me vomit.

I take several deep breaths, willing myself to calm down. Willing myself to believe him when he says he would have killed me already. There’s no reason for him to be standing there watching me suffer when he could just do the job and be on his way.

No.

He’s not lying about that part.

But Brett?

My husband is many things, but a murderer?

I can’t see it.

Not unless…

“You need some water or something? Ginger ale? Crackers?”

I shake my head.

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