You know what? Screw justice right now. I just need to save myself. Justice won’t be able to do it for me.

“I really won’t,” I say it like I mean it this time, because I truly have no plans to scheme against him considering that the possibility of being shot is hanging between us like a guillotine.

“What’s your name?” he asks out of the blue, taking me completely by surprise.

I think of a fake name to give him, because the less he knows about me, the better. But before I can open my mouth, he lifts my chin with the gun. “And do not lie to me. I have my ways of finding the truth, and if I catch you in a lie, it’ll be your first and final strike.”

“Lia,” I blurt out, fear getting the better of me. “My name is Lia.”

“Lia…” he rolls my name off his tongue with his accent, as if that will give it meaning. “So you’ll pretend you saw nothing tonight, Lia?”

I nod more times than needed, my chin hitting the gun with every movement, and nausea recoils in my belly.

“How will I make sure of it?”

“You…you can trust me.”

His lips twitch and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for the smile to break free, but it never does. It seems trapped somewhere out of reach, just like the rest of his emotions. “Trust you? Surely even you realize how absurd that sounds.”

“There are surveillance cameras,” I blurt again. I want to tell him that the police will find out about the murders—and mine—if he decides to go through with it.

“Don’t worry about those. They’re not flesh and bone and, therefore, can be dealt with expeditiously. The current topic of discussion is you.”

A human. Flesh and bone he can hurt.

His underlying threat mounts in the air and swiftly pierces through my jumbled nerves.

I rack my brain before I finally whisper, “I…I have money. It’s not much, but…”

“Do I look like someone who needs your money?”

I stare at him then, really stare at him. At his pressed pants and elegant shirt. At his leather shoes and the expensive watch strapped to his wrist. He definitely doesn’t look like someone who needs money. However, he specified it. He said he doesn’t need my money, as if that has a category on its own.

He glides the tip of his gun to my mouth and I shudder, recalling exactly where that muzzle was only seconds before.

“You’ll keep these lips shut. You’ll forget all of our faces.”

I nod meekly. My only focus is to escape his swirling orbit that’s more freezing than the winter outside.

“If you let even a single word out, I’ll know, and believe me, you won’t like what happens, Lia. In fact, you won’t like it in the slightest.”

A burst of fear snaps my shoulder blades together and I stare at him, dumbfounded. How will he know? How is that going to be possible?

“Is that clear?” he speaks slowly, unhurriedly, cementing his words.

I nod.

He pulls his gun away and I let out a long sigh.

“Use your words, Lia.”

“Yes.” My voice is barely a whisper.

“Say, ‘yes, I understand.’”

“Yes…I understand.”

He reaches for me with his other hand and I freeze as his fingers replace his gun, gently gliding over my lips. Flames erupt across my skin, even though his touch is like crossing paths with death. Literally and figuratively.

“These lips will stay shut.”

My throat clogs and I’m unable to make a sound or even nod my head.

He releases me as fast as he grabbed me and a cold wave washes over the earlier fire, dousing it in one harsh sweep.

The bossman tilts his head toward the elevator. “Go.”

For a second, I don’t believe what he’s said, that he’s simply letting me go. I take a tentative step backward, fully expecting him to pounce on me.

He doesn’t make a move to follow.

I back away another two steps, not breaking eye contact. When he doesn’t move, I run to the elevator and punch the call button.

My frantic gaze is still on him.

The stranger.

The scary fucking stranger.

He remains as I left him, his gun motionless at his side and his attention on me as if he’s contemplating whether or not he should shoot me in the face anyway.

The elevator finally opens and I dash inside, holding my breath and shaking uncontrollably as I hit my floor’s number and code. I miss the first time because of my trembling fingers and scattered thoughts. I have to try again before my passcode is accepted.

As the door finally closes, I slide down to the floor and empty my stomach in the middle of the elevator.

He didn’t kill me. He didn’t put a bullet in my head.

So why do I feel like I just signed my death certificate?

3

Lia

It’s been a week since the day I witnessed three people getting killed, and somehow ended up intact.

A whole damn week of biting my nails, watching my windows, and having an unhealthy obsession with the rear-view mirror whenever I’m driving.

I was supposed to take some downtime before I got back to rehearsing the upcoming ballet, but I’ve been on a rollercoaster ride worse than if we’d had consecutive shows.

On the surface, it might appear to be foolish paranoia. After he let me go, it may seem that I’m only obsessing over it because of the surge of adrenaline I experienced that night.

It’s not paranoia.

Far from it.

I’m not an idiot. I’m well aware that night wasn’t the end of it. If anything, it’s the beginning of something ugly I have no control over.

I debated with myself about telling the police, but I quickly shooed that idea away. I believed him when he said he’d know if I talked. I believed him when he said the consequences will be dire.

After all, I saw him murder a man in cold blood and not bat an eyelash about it. That sort of person is capable of doing worse.

To cement my theories, the following day, I rushed to the reception area after spending a sleepless night tossing and turning in bed. I asked the receptionist if something had happened in the parking garage, but he only stared at me as if I were a crazy old hag. I begged him to go down there with me, and when we arrived, there was nothing. Nada.