Cellar Door

“You’ve seen too much.”

Banked against the wet slab of earth, I’m trapped between the torrent that is the rain and the fiend standing over me. I look up, wipe strands of hair from my vision, gritty dirt leaving a trail across my face, as I stare into his face.

I see him—I look right into his stone-cold eyes. The ice-blue unmistakable.

Him.

The alley illuminates with a flash as lightning strikes. My breath lodges in the base of my throat the way it did all those months ago during the storm, and I realize, with a sickening clarity, that I’ve found him.

And now he’s going to kill me.

4

Him

Luke

How hard is it to make someone disappear?

With social media, GPS, news streaming twenty-four/seven—it’s virtually impossible to fall off the radar these days.

I should know; I’ve been gone for three years, and there’s still a missing persons report out on me. I’ve managed to dwell below the radar, but there’s always the threat of discovery. A constant mindfulness humming just below the surface of my thoughts.

Tic tock. An internal clock counts down to my expiration date.

Jack Keller was just one clog in that ticking time bomb of a machine. His gears ground to a halt, snuffed out, like the scorched earth he was.

I cautiously flick my gaze toward his sprawled body cast-off alongside the alley Dumpster, like a sack of trash. Fitting. Rage still simmers in my veins, his death not enough to quiet the endless riot inside my head.

Keller needs to be disposed of.

Cover your tracks. That’s how you stay safely below that radar.

If you’re going to kill someone, then make them disappear completely. Or else that nightmare never stops haunting, never stops finding you.

A sloshing noise catches my attention, and I remember the woman.

She’s still here—still needs to be dealt with.

I rein in the fiery need to destroy and focus my senses on the count. One body, one Dumpster, one alley. Two lives. One death.

She doesn’t fit.

Don’t feed the beast.

The count helps quiet the rage, separates the warring halves within me.

As the craze tapers off, I can look at her again. Clad in a jean jacket soaked with rain and mud, she’s backing away slowly, small steps putting distance between us. “Stop.”

She does as I say. When she turns to face me, I study her—her soft features that are strained in anger. Not fear, though she should be scared. She’s analyzing me just as closely, fury marring her otherwise beautiful face. Maybe she’s in shock.

“You don’t belong here,” I say, repeating what I told her earlier, believing it now more than ever. Then I reason aloud: “You kicked me.” I almost smile, but that would be inappropriate considering the situation.

She raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. Her dark hair is soaked and clings to her cheeks and neck. A gun harness straps her shoulders beneath the jacket. Black lashes glint with raindrops as she blinks. I stare past it all, into her eyes, diving deeply into those dark pools to find the answer of her.

How difficult would it be to make her disappear? Who cares about her? A mother, father—a husband? Child? No. I don’t think so. Those vacant, near-black irises reflect no concern for others. She’s not fearful for her life on that carnal level.

She’s alone.