Page 16 of Time Stops With You

Nerves chew me up inside.

Is it immigration? Is something wrong with Josiah’s visa?

I shake off the thought. Thanks to his school, Josiah was granted a student visa. I’ve double and triple-checked his papers. There’s no reason immigration should come after us. Not while Josiah’s still a scholarship recipient. Besides, I doubt immigration would be driving around in brand-new SUVs.

I point my attention to the fourth floor. Thankfully, there’s no smoke billowing from the windows. I don’t hear the tell-tale sirens of fire trucks or police cars either. Nothing seems out of the ordinary except for the fleet of brand-new SUVs gathered in the parking lot. And I highly doubt those cars have anything to do with our family.

Feeling calmer now, I lug the heavy rice pans all the way up to the fourth floor. Normally, Josiah comes out to help me cart these upstairs but, since he’s not answering the phone, I have no choice but to do it myself.

By the time I finally stumble to the fourth floor landing, I’m sweating buckets, my chest is heaving and my hair is plastered to my forehead. I dig deep to find the strength to lug the pans the rest of the way.

Finally, I stop in front of my door and set the pans on the ground. Before I grab my keys, I plant my hands on my hips and stretch my back muscles. They crackle and pop with each twist of my hips.

Oof, I’m getting old.

It’s at that moment I hear a strange murmuring sound.

Weird. Is that coming frominsideour apartment?

I take a cautious step closer and tilt my ear toward the door. Muffled voices filter through the grimy walls.

That voice isnotJosiah’s and it doesn’t seem like the TV either. Not that Josiah ever watches TV.

Someone’s inside of my house.

Someone’swithmy brother.

I want to kick the door down and burst in like the She-Hulk, but I don’t have the strength. So I fumble for my keys and stick it in the lock instead. Wrenching the knob, I storm into the room, hands fisted and ready to fly.

“Nardi!” My brother greets me with an excited squeak and a mega-watt smile. I do a quick scan of his body.

His clothes are on.

There are no visible wounds.

No signs of distress.

He hasn’t been crying.

Then and only then do I move my gaze around the room. There are six men in suits and white gloves prowling around the living room. Three other men stand behind the sofa. They’re also in suits but aren’t wearing gloves.

The entire overdressed entourage stands behind a thin man sitting with his back ramrod straight on the edge of the loveseat. He’s the most casually dressed in a simple T-shirt and loose jeans. He also seems the most harmless, given his lean physique and somewhat of a feeble aura.

There’s a ridiculous beanie on his head, which is rather distracting and unnecessary for the eighty degree weather. Although I’m one hundred percent judging him for the beanie, some part of me categorizes his face as attractive.

But I don’t let that thought linger for long.

He and his tuxedo men are intruders and I won’t let my guard down until I know what the heck is going on.

“Who are you?” I demand, since—by all appearances—he seems like the one in charge.

“Ronan Cullen.” His eyes drop to my fist and back to my face. “Are you going to punch me?”

I don’t take my eyes off the intruder. “Josiah?”

“Yeah?”

“ShouldI punch him?”

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