Cellar Door

This gets a rise out of her, tapping her last energy reserve. “I told you what you wanted to know. I’m no threat to you. I’m not a cop.”

“But you know my name and where I live.” I made sure she did, to keep my conscience from intervening. I can’t chance any loose ends.

Her breathing intensifies. “You sick bastard. I didn’t know anything before you told me. Let me go. I won’t say a word. I’m an ex-fucking-cop. You’re right. I was tossed off the force. So even if I said something, no one would believe me, anyway.”

I light the wick. The candle crackles with a small flame, illuminating the darkness. I set the candle on the slab floor and reach into my pocket.

Her eyes widen at the sight of my coin.

“The truth is, Mak. I didn’t—”

“Don’t call me that—”

I flip the coin once, silencing her. “You put yourself here. You saw too much. At the warehouse, I gave you the option to leave, but your bad cop habits got the better of you. I had no choice but to take you then.” I flip the coin again. “But I’m a reasonable guy. I can give you another choice now.”

Her throat dips as she swallows.

“I have one thing I have to do,” I say, stepping forward. She matches me, moving farther back. “One very important thing that I can’t let you get in the way of. So here’s the choice, Mak. Heads, I keep you alive until I’m done. Release you afterward. Or tails, I kill you now. Save myself the trouble, as you’ve already proven to be problematic.”

Her back hits the wall. Nowhere to go. “Or you can just let me go now.”

I smile. She’s cute. In a crazy kind of way. “Are you ready?”

She’s still. Dark eyes boring through me.

I flip the coin a final time.

She doesn’t wait for me to catch it before she’s yanking at the chain.

I uncover the coin and shake my head. “Tails. Damn.”

I start toward her, and she releases the chain, her hands go up in defense. I give her credit; she doesn’t scream. “Please… Don’t.”

I’ve taken too many chances lately. I’m either getting old or tired. Probably both. I have to secure the scene before morning, and I can’t do that with a woman roaming around my cellar. One woman can’t stop what I started.

The fight is instant. She lashes out like a wild animal, all teeth and claws.

She manages to draw blood, nails digging into my neck like a feral cat, before I secure both her wrists. I drive them above her head and pin her against the wall. I press my body along hers, ceasing her fight.

Eyes wide, breathing so intense I fear she might pass out, she doesn’t look away. She stares directly at my face. I’m not sure if its curious appall, or the fact that she’s a cop and wants to memorize my features…but she doesn’t blink.

Flipism is, to most, a cod philosophy. It’s not a religion; it’s not a belief. The flip of a coin is a sure way for me not to have my decisions challenged. Like they’re being challenged right now as I stare down into her unblinking gaze.

“This is the first time I’m not letting the coin decide.” My voice is a low threat.

Her chest heaves, her breath fans my face.

“Don’t make me regret it.” I release her arms and step back.

Her body trembles, the adrenaline taking hold too fast. She crumples to the floor, twisting her shirt over her knees. It’s torn even more. Tears drip down her cheeks. She’s not crying. She’s not fearful—not yet. This will fully hit her later. How close she came to death.

I step farther away. A sick feeling tears through my gut.

I should dispose of her with Keller. I’m taking a risk. And for what? An ex-cop?

No—there’s more to her. There’s a loose thread nagging me to pull it, to unravel her story. She’s involved somehow.

I head to the door and pause before I leave. “I’ll bring you a new shirt.”