Page 21 of Devil Mine

In retrospect, I should really have listened to her.

???

I walk down the dark hallways, unsure if I’m even allowed to be here. There’s no sign of life whatsoever.

After traipsing through an entire exhibit searching for him, I’m about to give up when I see a streak of light filter through an open door.

My heart jumps into my throat at the thought that I might actually meet him face to face. How am I going to explain what I’m doing in this darkened part of the museum? Isn’t it a little desperate of me to have followed him here? He had eyes on me when I was dancing, he could have cut in if he wanted, or at the very least waited for me when I was done.

Maybe he’s not interested after all.

Oh god, he’s definitely going to think I'm desperate.

I’m second guessing being here. I’m about to turn around and walk back to the event when I hear a scream.

It’s coming from the open door.

This all feels eerily familiar, the situation all too similar to what I witnessed at our offices.

Clearly, I learned nothing from my first experience with violence because instead of leaving like I should, like you would think I’d have learned was the smart thing to do, I inch closer.

For the second time in three weeks, I find myself listening at a door and peering in on something I definitely shouldn’t be seeing.

I press my face against the frame and look through. Like before, I arrive mid-way through an argument. There’s a man on his knees that I don’t recognize but think I saw briefly at the event and three other men standing to the sides of him.

Unlike before, this time there’s a different ending.

Because no sooner do I make sense of the scene does an arm raise and a gun get pointed at the prone man’s head. Immediately, I recognize the very familiar tattoo decorating the hand – an open collar and chain.

The man who attacked my father.

Surrealistically, I’m so focused on the tattoo that even though I’m effectively staring right at the gun, I don’t register that I am until he squeezes the trigger and fires.

There’s a deafening bang.

The man’s head explodes, his brains splattering everywhere. His body falls forward and hits the hardwood floor, making me jump.

It’s over in less than a second.

A terrified scream bubbles up my throat and demands to be set free. I slap my hands over my mouth to suffocate it. I’m screaming and screaming and screaming in my head but letting nothing out.

Somehow, self-preservation pierces through the fear just enough to keep my instincts sharp.

If they find me, I’m dead.

I rock back into my heels, crouched at the bottom of the door. Once again, I’m shaking like a leaf. Terror leaves me cold as ice. I desperately tell myself to move, but I can’t. My limbs are locked.

The man’s hand comes nonchalantly down at his side. My eyes haven’t moved from the gun, from the fingers that so easily killed someone.

“You shouldn’t have killed him here,” Paunchy Guy says with a sigh. He’s got a cut on his lip and blood at the corner of his mouth. “The clean up is going to be impossible.”

They’re talking about it like it’s spilled merlot on a carpet, not a man’s brain matter.

“Nail his body to the wall and leave him,” a commanding voice orders. “I told you, I’m sending a message. The Italians should know that they're under attack.” The glacial, remorseless tone sends a completely different shiver sliding down my back. That kind of cold, murderous fury mixed in with his clinically authoritative tone scares me to my bones.

Finally, I’m able to lift my gaze from the gun and up his arm until I find the side of his face.

And the world drops out from under me.

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