Page 91 of Kylo
I resisted the urge to tell him my address, remembering that he’d been following me, that he likely not only knew where I lived, but my exact schedule.
Where, just an hour before, that information would have made me angry, now I was just relieved.
I stared at the screen, worrying that he might ignore my texts, that he might not be by his phone, that he wouldn’t see or be able to help me in time.
Should I call the police?
But if they came and found Marco and his men and arrested them, it might all come out.
It was my name on those documents.
On paper, I was the arms dealer.
There was nothing linking them to anything.
Ernest tried to edge past me.
Needing to keep him distracted so he didn’t whine, I reached out with my free hand to rub his belly. He dropped down and rolled onto his side, inviting more. With my free hand, I kept touching the screen so I could see a text when it came.
One minute.
Five.
Men’s voices got lower as they moved into other rooms, then got loud as they closed in again.
I was holding my breath, so I could hear the swishing sound as the closet doors slid open.
Okay.
It was okay.
There was no reason to think they could find me.
I petted Ernest harder as I leaned over, burying my face in his wrinkly neck, trying to keep myself from making a sound as the hangers shrieked across the bar while they looked for me.
The luggage thumped against the hidden door and I prayed the pressure wasn’t enough to push the magnet in and unlatch the door.
I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to know what was coming if our location had been found out.
I focused on the feel of Ernest’s soft fur as I counted breaths, trying to keep them steady and slow.
But there was no way to control the way adrenaline surged through me, to calm my heartbeat, to force my lungs to accept more oxygen.
“She’s not hiding on a fucking shelf,” someone said, close. So, so close.
But then, the slide of the doors again.
Then, suddenly, the crash of glass.
I yelped against Ernest’s neck, using both my arms to keep him in place as he startled.
“Good boy,” I whispered, my voice barely even audible to my own ears. “Good boy. Who’s my good boy?”
Shoes crunched on the glass shards, then moved further away.
I was vaguely aware of more crashing and speaking before, suddenly, the silence spread.
I didn’t move.
