Page 128 of I'll Be Waiting

“Don’t want to talk?” she says. “Not as much fun when it isn’t your old friend Patrice.”

I break into a run. I’ve got the knife in one hand and the keys in the other with my finger over the unlock button. I’m running as fast—

“Nic!” The voice comes from right in front of me, and someone materializes. A figure waving his arms madly. “Stop!”

The voice is muffled, even though he’s right there.

Anton.

I seeAnton.He’s indistinct but waving his arms, mouth open as if shouting words I can’t hear. I slide to a stop, and my foot slips, taking me down to one knee as my brain screams that I can’t stumble, can’t fall, must keep going, just keep running—

The crash of waves.

I hear the crash of waves… right below me. The bugs clear enough that I can see my bare foot… at the edge of the cliff.

“Anton?” I whisper.

I look up, and he’s speaking, but I only catch one word in five.

“Don’t—go—run—”

I might not know what he’s saying, but I can understand the gist of it.

Don’t run off the fucking cliff, Nic.

My eyes fill with tears.

“You always have my back, don’t you?” I whisper.

He shakes his head, his face filled with anger and frustration, because he can’t truly have my back. He’s stuck somewhere between here and there, and this is all he can do, half appear and half speak.

“It was enough,” I murmur.

He shakes his head again. Then his gaze goes over my shoulder, and it contorts into the rage I saw last night.

ThatwasAnton. I thought it couldn’t be because I’d never seen him like that. I could not imagine him being that angry and certainly not at me.

But it’s not directed at me.

I spin just as Patrice runs at me. I dive to the side before she shoves me off the cliff. When she wheels, there’s something in her hand. Something big and sharp.

She lifts a pair of pruning shears, and her gaze goes to the little steak knife in my hand. Her lips curl in a half smile, half sneer.

“I win,” she says.

A flicker of movement as Anton runs at her. She quicksteps back and frowns at his indistinct ghost.

“Roddy?” she says.

“Get—fuck—” he says, his voice cutting in and out.

Patrice laughs. “Not Roddy, but you must be related. Just as cute… and just as useless.”

Not Patrice.

That’s what she said.

She got in.

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