Page 75 of Web of Lies
In the blink of an eye, the house falls silent. I've been adjusting to the quiet for the last two weeks now, but it still feels unsettling in many ways, like the world is holding its breath. Every creak and tiny shift of air seems louder than it should. It's been days since I've heard the hum of a passing car or the murmur of a stranger's voice. And the same nightmarish thought keepscircling in the back of my mind: if I can't hear anyone out there, then who would hear me scream if something happened? Maybe it's just the countless horror stories I've consumed over the years, but sometimes I can't help but feel like I've stepped into one. In fact, this could be the beginning of a movie: a killer hiding in the woods like a predator, waiting to pounce. But the reality is completely different.
Turning around, I walk through the living room and step out onto the back porch. The last warm rays of sunlight creep through the trees and cast deep blue shadows across the property. My gaze falls on Kyle, who is standing by the patio table with his focus on the firearms.
My horror story is right here with me.
I step off the porch and walk toward him. At the sound of the grass rustling beneath my feet, he shifts his attention from the pistol in his hands to me.
"Are they gone?" he asks.
"Yes, they just left."
"Perfect. Do you think you'll feel more comfortable without an audience?"
I let out a soft sigh and reach for one of the empty pistols, its cold metal biting at my fingertips as I lift it. The weight doesn't feel as foreign anymore. My grip is steadier, and my movements are less clumsy. Little by little, handling a gun is starting to feel more natural, but I know that I still have room to improve.
"Can you help me again? With my stance, posture, all of it?" I ask, my voice is quieter than usual. "I want it to be perfect."
Kyle shifts closer, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Of course," he says with a low chuckle, leaning just a little too close. His fingers curl around mine as he takes the empty pistol from me and replaces it with the one he's holding.
"Thanks," I mutter.
"Sure thing." His hands land on my hips, and he guides me to face the paper target pinned against a tree. "Just like the times before, relax your shoulders," he murmurs, his lips brushing near my ear, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down my spine. "Feet shoulder-width apart." His fingers move from my hips to my thighs, nudging them apart. "Breathe. Focus on the target, not your nerves," he whispers, so close I can feel the vibration of his voice against my skin. I follow his instructions exactly, step by step, as he has shown me before.
"Just a little more," he says. His chest presses against my back as he eases me into the correct position. His fingers curl around my biceps as he bends my arms, and my muscles slowly give in to the warmth of his touch. "That's perfect. You've got this."
I flip the safety switch off with a quiet click and rest my finger on the trigger. My gaze locks onto the paper target staring back at me. I take a deep breath, shift my finger to the trigger, and pull. The explosion rips through the quiet night air like thunder, disturbing the peaceful evening. The kickback hits me, forcing my shoulders back, but I remain standing straight.
"Perfect. Keep going," Kyle says from behind me. But my eyes are glued to the paper target where a single hole grazes the silhouette's shoulder. I know I have gotten better. Very few of my shots miss the target, and I hit the silhouette more often than not. However, I want to hit its head at least once.
I pull the trigger again and again, setting off a series of explosions that bounce through the forest and ripple through the chilly evening air.
"Is that all you've got?" Kyle eventually says, and my eyes widen. My heart pounds as I scan the paper full of holes. Of the nine shots, three hit the shoulders, three hit the stomach and chest, and the rest are scattered around the edges.
"I'm doing my best," I snap, shooting him a glare over my shoulder. He stands there with a cigarette hanging from his lips, smoke curling around his face as he grins at me.
"Doesn't look like it," he says, voice dripping with amusement.
"Shut up, asshole." Heat rises to my cheeks, and I tighten my grip on the pistol.
He steps closer, his chest pressing against my back as he leans in. "Show me that you can do better," he whispers, his breath hot against my ear. The scent of mint and tobacco fills my lungs as a low, teasing chuckle rumbles from his throat and ripples through my chest.
I grit my teeth, square my shoulders, and take a deep breath. The cold metal bites against my palm as I aim and pull the trigger again. The shot echoes through the night, and the bullet hits the target in the stomach again.
"You can do better than that," Kyle adds.
"Stop pushing me."
"Not until you make a fatal hit."
His words hit me harder than the gun's kickback. Without thinking, I tighten my grip on the trigger and shoot again. The recoil slams into my shoulder, throwing me off balance, but the shot flies straight and hits the paper target right between the eyes. A clean, fatal hit. For a moment, a wave of pride surges through me, fueled by a twisted sense of victory at having proven him wrong. But it’s washed away by the sting of annoyance. Instead of celebrating the shot, I whip around, pistol still raised, and glare at him.
"Better now?" I snap.
His gaze shifts from the target to the gun aimed at him. When his eyes lock on mine, his lips curl into that infuriating, mocking smile he's perfected. Seeing the amusement plastered all over his face, the fury inside me boils over. I storm toward him. Butbefore I can reach him, his long fingers wrap around my wrist, and he yanks me toward him.
"Careful," Kyle pulls me closer, one arm sneaking around my waist. "I might think you want to take me up on a little physical training session."
"Let me go." My chest heaves, each breath sharp and uneven as I squirm against his hold.
