Page 7

Lilly

I know that Isaiah told me to stay here, and I keep telling myself to stay put. But when I see two men following Isaiah, I just can’t listen to myself any longer.

I wait until they’ve rounded a corner, going deeper into the alley, before I get out of the car. My phone in hand, I follow the group of people. As a precaution, I dial 911, but don’t call. I won’t unless I see signs of struggle. I don’t want to be seen or heard.

Despite my best efforts at being silent, my heels clack on the ground, echoing off the brick walls surrounding me. Even though we’re in the middle of the city, it feels eerily silent. I can hear each of my breaths, the sound loud in my ears. An uneasy feeling settles deep in my gut, and no amount of relaxation techniques that I’ve learned knock it loose.

Isaiah was always so calm and in control when we were together, and I would have assumed that in any situation, he’d be the level-headed person he was when he beat up Mr. Tomlinson, lost at putt-putt, or made love to me. I wanted to think that this was another situation he could take care of, but there was something about his behavior that just wasn’t right.

He had that gun, for one thing. On the drive to this alley, he couldn’t keep his eyes on the road, always looking in the rearview mirror. But… Maybe I’m overreacting. That’s why I’m doing this. Once I see what’s going on, once I’m able to wrap my mind around the situation, I’ll call the police.

Should I just call the police right now?

I’m about to do it, just in case. The worst thing that can happen is that they show up for nothing and everything is just a big misunderstanding. I want to make sure Isaiah’s safe. He’s strong, he has a gun, but there were two people following him. He’s just one man.

My finger hovers above the call button, but before I press it, I hear Isaiah’s voice, terse and blunt as he addresses the two men. I can’t make out anything that he says, so I creep closer, peeking around the corner.

Isaiah’s standing there, his body tense but steady. The gun is aimed at one of the men, who’s got his hands in the air. The other man is slowly approaching Isaiah, taking advantage of the fact that he’s not being watched.

“Who sent you?” Isaiah demands, an edge to his voice that I haven’t heard before. It’s almost like he’s a completely different person from the man I’ve met.

It scares me a little.

“It doesn’t matter,” the man who’s within Isaiah’s line of fire says. “Let us go and we’ll put this whole thing behind us.”

“Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?” Isaiah asks, deadpan and cold. “Two of our guys don’t report back after a hit and you think I believe that your boss will call off his dogs if I let you go?”

At that moment, the other guy runs forward, probably with the intent to knock the gun out of Isaiah’s hands. Isaiah moves faster, though. Without so much as flinching, Isaiah quickly aims and fires a shot.

The bullet lodges itself in the man’s chest. He falls to his knees, his hand weakly clutching at the wound, a gurgling sound escaping his lips. It’s nothing like what happens when people get shot in movies, and somehow that makes the sight even more appalling.

Every single fiber of my being is telling me to run, but I’m frozen in place. I’m hit with the absolutely horrifying realization that when my fight or flight instincts are activated, I don’t do either of those things. I freeze.

“You’re insane,” the other man says. And, even though it’s obvious that he’s freaking out, there’s something about the way he’s holding his body still, his chin high, that says he’s been in situations like this before. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Are you telling me that motherfucker wasn’t running at me to get his hands on my gun?” Isaiah asks, sounding almost bored. “Or do you expect me to believe that you two were trailing me for fifteen minutes to have a friendly conversation? That was self-defense, dumbass. Now tell me, who sent you?”

Instead of answering, the man surges forward. He doesn’t get very far, though. Isaiah pulls the trigger again, this time aiming directly for the man’s head.

I should look away. I’m well aware of what’s going to happen. But, again, I’m frozen. All I can do is stand there, my eyes wide as the bullet goes into the man’s head and exits through the back of his skull.

He collapses, his body deadweight. Without a pause, Isaiah tucks the gun away and pulls his phone from his pocket. As he begins a phone call, I stare at the two bodies on the ground, my stomach churning. For a moment I think I’m going to be sick but I swallow it down.

“--that so? Well, if that’s the case, the situation has been handled,” I hear him say, once blood stops rushing in my ears. “I’ll need takeout for two at my current location.”

He walks up to one of the bodies, looking down at it while he listens to the person on the other end of the line. I take the opportunity to step out of my hiding spot. My legs shake violently, but I force myself to stay upright.

“Understood,” Isaiah says before putting his phone back in his pocket.

Somehow, I find my voice, and I say, “You killed them?”

His shoulders tense before he turns around slowly. My body shakes even harder, and I want to run. I just can’t make my legs work, though. I might as well be glued to the ground.

“There was a situation,” he says as if that explains everything. “I had to handle it.”

“You–” I start to say, but I can’t say anything else. My tongue feels way too big for my mouth. I swallow hard, feeling like I might choke on my saliva.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he says, coming toward me. His touch on my arm when he turns me away from the carnage he’s created is deceptively gentle. I know what those hands can do, and it terrifies me. “Come on, let's get you out of here.”

“You killed them,” I say again as he walks me toward the car. “They– Isaiah, you–”

“I know,” he says gently. I can’t equate the man talking to me with the man who killed those people. I think I might be going insane. “Don’t worry about that, though. Those bodies won’t be found. There’s a cleanup crew on the way.”

I can’t think of anything to say in response, so I stay quiet. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, I need to get away from him. I don’t feel safe around him anymore, and it’s obvious to me that I don’t know him at all.

I can’t believe I let myself get caught up in this psycho’s web.

He helps me into the car, and I think my lucky stars that he’s going to be taking me home. Except we don’t go toward my apartment. Instead, Isaiah smiles over at me and says, “Good news, we’ll be able to make our reservation now.”

“I– I thought you said you had something to deal with at work,” I whisper, my heart sinking.

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck as he says, “I was hoping I’d have more time to figure out how to tell you this, but that was the thing I had to deal with at work.”

“So… this…” I say slowly, putting together the pieces of the puzzle. I have them all now, but still I can’t quite believe it.

“It’s my job,” he says, not batting an eye. “I only do this kind of handling for work, though. I don’t shoot people for fun.”

The way he says it is so blunt. It makes me squirm in my seat, unable to find a response. That doesn’t seem to bother him, though. So, as we ride the rest of the way to the restaurant in silence, I begin to formulate my escape plan.

God, I hope I’m able to get myself away from him.

Isaiah parks on the street and leads me into the fancy steakhouse with his large hand on the small of my back. Even if I wanted to break away from him right then, I couldn’t. Especially not in the heels I’m wearing. So, I hold my head high and try to exude normalcy.

I think I do a fairly good job of it. We get to our table quickly, and I agree to each of the appetizers that Isaiah suggests. For good measure, I even order a mocktail. I make small talk with him, not really registering any of the conversation. Then, when our drinks hit the table, I excuse myself to wash my hands.

From what I can tell, Isaiah doesn’t suspect anything. He gives me a warm smile, and it’s almost enough to make me forget about what I saw less than half an hour ago. But I can’t get the image of those two men, crumpled and dead on the ground out of my head.

Instead of going to the bathroom, I head straight for the front door. Without breaking my stride, I let myself out, stepping onto the street. The first breath of air feels like freedom.

At first I walk calmly, not wanting to raise any alarm bells. The further away from the restaurant I get, the faster I go, keeping up a brisk trot for a block. Eventually, I stop just long enough to take off my heels. Once my feet are free and my shoes are in my hand, I take off running.

As the buildings pass me by, the weight in my chest starts to lift. I’m going to get out of here! I’m going to make it home! I just have to duck in somewhere and call Wendy to get a ride. Just being near my best friend will calm my nerves, even if I’m too overwhelmed to get any words out.

I’m about to duck into a bank when I feel hands on my waist. I hear two men’s voices that I don’t recognize. Desperately, I try to turn around and see who has me, but I’m thrown into the back of a van and the doors are closed before I can say anything.

As they get in and drive away, I’m screaming at myself in my head. Why can’t I move? Why do I freeze? I should never have run away from Isaiah.