Page 15 of Auctioned Innocence
My pulse hammers in my throat, so loud I fear they might hear it.
Stay calm. Assess. Plan.
Marco’s instructions from a lifetime of drills flash through my mind, but panic claws at my throat, making it hard to breathe.
This isn’t a drill.
This isn’t a theoretical scenario with my brother watching over me.
This isreal.
I rush to my closet, retrieving the gun Marco insisted I keep behind my winter sweaters.
My hands shake so badly I nearly drop it.
I’ve trained at the range countless times, but this isn’t an exercise.
My fingers ghost over the safety as I back toward the window, throwing it open with my free hand.
The late summer air hits my face as I look down.
The drop looks daunting now, though I’ve scaled this roof countless times sneaking out to parties.
Three stories up, but there’s that sturdy trellis and the garage roof below.
A car passes on the street outside.
Normal.
Ordinary.
If I screamed right now, would anyone hear?
Would anyone help?
Or would they hurry past, not wanting to get involved in whatever happens behind the walls of the Renaldi estate?
I glance back at my door, heart hammering so violently I can feel each beat in my fingertips, blood rushing in my ears.
Should I confront them?
Hide?
I’ve memorized exit routes for every room in this house, have practiced escape scenarios with Marco until they became autopilot.
But now, faced with real danger, I feel like a child again—scared and unprepared.
I think of the knife taped under my desk.
The panic button installed in my headboard. The self-defense classes Dad insisted on since I was eight.
None of it seems adequate against the footsteps approaching my door.
My hands shake as I text Marco:someone’s in the house.
My phone lights up instantly with his call. “What the fuck do you mean someone’s in the house?” Marco demands, his voice sharp.
I hear car engines revving in the background, the squeal of tires. “Our security system?—”
