Page 5 of Kristoff

As I study the doors, the hall seems to shift.What’s happening to me? I blink rapidly, trying to clear my vision. I tremble. It has to be adrenaline…or is it the drug?

The second guy turns the can over, emptying the contents into a pit. I’m out of time. Taking a last glance at him, I step inside and turn the knob on the first door I reach. The small room is dark but empty. I’m not sure how I can tell, but I’m certain I’m alone.

Moments later, the whistling is on the other side of the door. Will he hear me breathing? I shut my throat, mid exhale. Anxiety’s building. My entire body is trembling. This isn’t normal. I hold my hand in front of me, turning it to scan the palm and back, finding it steady.

His footsteps go past the door, and I pull in one deep, satisfying breath after another. He sets the can down hard enough for the sound to reach me. “Hey, I’m going over to kick a ball around for a while.” He sounds like he’s right next to me.

“All right.” The man upstairs sounds muffled, yet he’s loud enough he could be in the room with me.

Holding my breath, I try to focus on every sound over the ringing in my ears.

Click. The strip under the door goes dark. Footsteps draw near.

In my imagination, I follow the man’s progress, as if I could see him through the wall. It’s the drug. From what I understand, it enhances men’s systems. They’re stronger, aggressive, and sometimes unstoppable.

The back door opens and closes. Then he’s gone. I flatten my palm against my chest, thankful to be able to breathe normally.

Footfalls come from upstairs, echoing in my head, reminding me I’m not out of danger. What was I thinking? I shouldn’t have taken the pill if I wasn’t sure I’d burn it off. I shouldn’t have snuck in here. Jaguars, huge snakes, or other wild animals don’t go by an alarm clock. But I’m hoping sunlight will help me spot what’s hiding in the shadows.

My eyes adjust to the darkness again. I’m in an office. The furnishings are sparse: a heavy, narrow cabinet, a couple of sturdy chairs in front of a desk and office chair.Just my luck. Of all the places I could go, I would pick a room with nowhere to hide.

Time passes. I can’t tell how much, but I’m coming out of my skin. I run my palms along my arms, digging my fingertips into the muscles. I need to move, to pace, to run around the room or even run in place. Only I can’t do it without making a sound. Should I leave? I can slip out the door before the ballplayer comes back. Nobody would ever know I was here. But this damn dress might give me away. What if he or one of the others watching the game sees me leave the building? What if one of them follows me into the trees?

Pounding in the other room breaks the silence, making me jump.

Oh no.

“Kristoff, open the door.” The pounding continues as the man upstairs comes down. The ringing starts again.

What do I do? I check again, but there’s nowhere to go. The little bag is stuck to my breast, a sharp corner digging into me. If they find me with this, it’ll be a bigger problem. For now, nobody knows how I got away. Finding me will be bad enough. Add the pills, used only by Faust’s men, and there’s a good chance the people who helped me will end up in trouble, too.

I reach between my breasts, pulling the bag as I head for the cabinet. I twist the handles, and they move a fraction of an inch, clicking. They’re locked. Okay, next plan. The heavy wood is solid and sitting flush against the wall. I can’t get under the cabinet, and, if I toss it behind, I may have to tip the whole thing, and surely someone will come investigate.

So…I’m only left with the desk. I go behind it to find there aren’t any drawers. This is more of an old table than a desk. Now what? I study the walls, bare of any frames or decorations. Swinging back, I stop at the chair. The hole is perfect for what I need. I push the baggie into the torn vinyl, lifting a layer of cushion to set the bag at the corner. I put my fingers directly over the spot. The belly feels huge. Will they catch the difference? I stick two fingers in, smoothing out the plastic and spreading out the pills so they don’t make a bump.

The noise stopped, and I’m not sure what I missed. Their conversation is muddled now. I can’t seem to process everything, but they’re looking for someone.

I have to find a hiding place, but unless I sink into the floorboards, I’m trapped. The desk skirt is too high. Anyone coming in will see me underneath when they open the door. With little else to try, I sit on the chair and lean over. That won’t work. I pull the lever, lowering the seat a couple of inches. The chair protests with a sharp, high-pitched squeak. My body jolts, as if hit by an electrical charge. I release the leaver, frozen in place as I stare at the door.Please. I can only hope nobody heard.

After a few heart-pounding seconds, I scoot my butt over, slowly setting my hip on the flattened cushion, and lie down. I clear the table with an inch of space to spare. This can work. I tuck in my skirt and fold my legs so my feet will have some sort of support.

Trembling, I put my hands against the underside of the desk and use my fingertips to pull myself under.

CHAPTER THREE

Gerald

Squinting, I take a closer look but can’t see wood showing through splintered layers of old paint. The no-good bastards painted the door. Anger wells inside me. They’ll do anything to show me up. Look at them living in the house I should have. Instead, I’m stuck on the second floor of the decrepit old jail on the other side of the village.

I pound on the door again. The no-good lout is keeping me waiting while he takes his sweet time to get here. I should have a key to every building in the village. What if I suspect they’re up to something and need to investigate? Instead, I’m left waiting to go inside.

Light filters out along the bottom of the door. It’s about damn time. The bolt pulls back but nothing happens. One. Two. Three seconds tick by. “Open. The. Door,” I demand, pounding on the wooden panel again. These Americans think they can waste their time and mine whenever they want.

The knob turns, and the door opens without the usual creaks. The improvement only adds to my darkening mood.

Kristoff Schunior leans against the doorframe, crossing his bare arms in front of his chest. He’s in a white undershirt and hasn’t even bothered with a belt. The worn jeans he’s wearing are loose on his waist. I don’t understand what the women in town see in a man like him or his brother.

He releases a breath. “What do you want, Gerald?” Even though he pretends, I can hear his annoyance.

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