Page 3 of The Devil May Care

I feel like I know him. Not well. Not recently. He has one of those faces that hovers in the back of the mind and refuses to explain itself. He’s familiar in the same way old nightmares often seem—half-formed and gut-deep. We could have gone to high school together. That’s its own form of hell. If I’m right, we didn’t run in the same crowds. I’m not sure I ran in any crowd.

He glances up and our eyes meet.

A spark. Or just a static charge of the carpet. A pulse of heat that blankets me, firing all my nerves at once. My heart pounds, sweat beads along my upper lip, and just as suddenly as it started, it’s gone. He looks at me like he knows something I don’t. Like he’s waiting for a chance to warn me about some future event, but the words never come.

He looks away first.

I should keep walking. I should mind my own damn business. I should head right back to the conference. I paid to be here, and I need my professional development hours, if I can handle brushing my seven-year-old neighbor’s slime out of George’s fur after he rolled in it, I can handle another hour of lectures. Or I could go back to my room, watch something mundane on television and scroll mindlessly on the internet.

I’m halfway towards the second option when they show up.

Three men. Bigger than they need to be. Leather jackets, heavyboots, too many rings. One of them has a toothpick. Another has a scar bisecting one eyebrow. A trio of cartoon henchmen. They’re not talking, not smiling, not flexing their oversized muscles. Just watching him.

I stop.

These are obviously not conference people. They’re the kind of guys you cross the street to avoid if it’s late and you’re alone and you’ve learned to trust the way your skin tightens at the back of your neck. They move toward the elevator and so does the first man, seemingly oblivious to the shadows looming behind him. I know—instantly, instinctively—I don’t want to be in that metal box with them. But he walks in. Calm. Like he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

There’s no real reason why I find myself jogging across the carpet and slipping between the metal doors. I have no proof anything bad is about to happen. For all I know my old classmate owes them money, or they’re undercover cops taking down a drug ring, or maybe they’re his buddies about to kidnap him—all in good fun—for some elaborate bachelor party. But there’s a warning in my gut—screaming—and I can’t make myself ignore it. I’m probably seeing problems that don’t exist, but if I’m wrong, I’ve done nothing more than ride a rickety elevator up to my room. If I’m right…

The world doesn’t get better by leaving good people to bleed alone.

Because sometimes the worst thing isn’t dying. It’s watching it happen and doing nothing. I can at least do this.

The doors slide shut behind me. My pulse is already rising. Something in the air has changed, even if not one of the men glances my way. Maybe I should be nervous, should uncap my pen and be ready to aim for soft bits. Something.

The elevator hums to life and we descend. I swallow down bile. I’d been sure they pressed the “up” button, but I can’t deny the lurch of the elevator carrying us down. Or maybe I didn’t see a button, maybe I just assumed since we were on the ground floor. Assumed because I’d thought about going up to my second-floor room. I wonder where we’re headed. The basement? Do mid-level hotels in the middle of Ohio have basements?

It’s too quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes you aware of every breath. Every heartbeat. Every bad decision that led you here. I can’t make out the hum ofthe elevator anymore. Just oppressive, ballooning dead air. The men behind me say nothing, but I can feel them. Heavy. Coiled. Waiting for something I can’t see.

The other man in the corner—black coat, unreadable expression—doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But his fingers curl just slightly at his sides, like he’s bracing for an earthquake only he can feel coming.

And then one of the others shifts. Not much. Just a tilt of the shoulder. A subtle lean.

But I see it.

I know that posture. I’ve seen it in alleyways, behind locked clinic doors, in the eyes of clients who’ve just been told their pet won’t survive the night. It’s the moment before. When adrenaline starts to lie. When someone decides who gets to walk away.

The man’s hand dips toward his belt. Something metallic flashes.

And I move.

It’s instinct. Not bravery. I step between them and grab his wrist.

“Hey.”

My voice is calm. Sharp. But inside, my heart is kicking like a spooked horse.

Big Guy’s head snaps toward me. His mouth opens. Are his teeth pointy? No. Adrenaline and cortisol are marinating my brain. I’m seeing things. And the man in black speaks.

It’s a single word, but it’s not one I know. It slides into the space between heartbeats, wrapping around my ribs like wire. My palm burns.

The lights explode overhead. Popping one by one like in quick succession. Sparks rain down. I should close my eyes. Scream. Find the emergency stop button. Would that help? Aren’t we supposed to take the stairs in case of fire?

The floor drops.

I fall.