Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 57064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
“Kiersten?” I murmur gently to get her attention. Her arms shake, and she doesn’t look up. She can’t turn away. Already, a pool of blood is forming underneath his head on my office carpet. Slowly standing up, I cautiously approach her. Shock and horror are clearly written on her face.
“I . . . I was scared,” she whispers, her eyes still locked on the unmoving Ivan. “I . . . I came back to get my phone and . . . and . . .”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I assure her. “Give me the lamp.”
She hands me the lamp, and I can see the dent on the metal base. Kiersten, though, is still looking at Ivan. “Is he . . .?”
“Don’t touch him,” I order her as she starts to kneel to check on him. “Kiersten, don’t.”
“But he could be—”
“I know. You need to get out of here,” I tell her, and this time it’s a command. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my keys and hand them to her. “Take my car. Go to 66 Perry Street. It’s near the corner of 4th and Perry in the West Village. Apartment 12C.”
“Gabe?” her voice cracks as tears shine in her eyes.
“Stay there until I come for you,” I tell her. “I’m going to fix this.”
“Gabriel.” My name trembles on her lips.
“It’s alright, I’m going to fix this,” I assure her, but her eyes reach mine, filled with remorse and regret. “Go,” I command her. “Now.”
KIERSTEN
The Past, December
66 Perry Street. It’s near the corner of 4th and Perry. Apartment 12C.
Parking the car, I stare at the building, my hands shaking so hard it takes me two attempts to confirm that yes, the note in my hand and the building number match. Sixty-six Perry Street, near the corner of 4th and Perry in the Village.
It’s a nondescript looking brownstone building with weathered white stone on the first floor façade and dark red brick running up the rest of the five floors. The roof’s flat, and in front there’s a relatively freshly painted wrought iron fence in front of the miniscule rectangle of concrete that’s the city’s excuse for a ‘garden’.
An even dozen steps lead from the sidewalk up to the front door, and with shaky, uncertain strides, I climb them. With each step, I look over my shoulder, certain that at any moment someone’s going to stop, point at me, and yell, “Murderer!”
By the time I reach the buzzer by the door, my hands are clammy and my heart is beating so hard I can’t hear anything but the rushing of blood in my ears. I feel like I’m about to jump out of my skin. Any second now, I’m going to hear the double whoop-whoop of a patrol car, and the first time I try to hit the buzzer button for Apartment 12C, I miss. The second time, the buzzer sounds, and a moment later the lock clicks open without anyone replying.
Apartment 12C is on the third floor, and it takes me a moment of gathering courage before I can knock. My knuckles are white, the skin stretched so tight when I finally do it.
I knock on the door with absolutely no idea who’s inside. All I know is that Gabriel told me to come here, and that’s enough for this instant. Through the peephole, I see the light go out as someone peers through and the locks click.
“Please come in.”
The woman on the other side is in a black dress and a white apron that identify her as house staff. Her feet are clad in black leather, flat-soled shoes, and while she’s not wearing anything on her head, she almost looks like a nun.
I wonder if she knows. It’s all I can think as she opens the door wider and gestures for me to come inside. My first step is hesitant, but I don’t have a choice now, do I?
I glance around nervously as she closes the door behind me, engaging three locks as soon as the latch clicks. “I’m Mrs. Shaw,” she says matter-of-factly. “I’ve been expecting you.”
The inside of the apartment is modern urban, with off white walls and hardwood floors that must cost an arm and a leg to rent . . . unless it’s bought. Then again, I don’t know whose house this is. I just have a sick feeling in my stomach. “Th–thank . . . you.”
Mrs. Shaw nods. “Come, I know you are in a state right now,” she says. Dread washes over me. She knows. What does she know? The questions bombard me, and she seems to answer each as they come.
“I wasn’t given details, and I ask that you not share details with me. But I know how to settle the nerves, and Mr. Joshua said that you might have some jangled ones. Here, let’s get you comfortable.”