Rachel was always harmless. The only weapons she ever had against me were three words: he cut me. Is she waiting down in the lobby to throw them like daggers? Talk about the ultimate mood killer. Jesus fucking Christ.
It seems like the elevator takes centuries to open, but when it does, I shoot out as if catapulted, careening around the corner and into a bunch of security guards—including Harvey, who has Leo in a thick-armed headlock. She's clawing at him, her British swearwords clamouring between her teeth.
Up ahead, there are several members of staff sitting on the floor, their bags clutched in their laps, pained looks on their drained faces. And beyond them, a woman is bent across the reception desk, speaking quietly with the attendant and pointing to something on the screen.
When she sees me, she eases up. Almost floats.
Rachel in slow motion: still small, still fragile, dark hair and pale skin and accusatory silence that deafens any alarm. She cocks her head at me. Shrugs.
And that's when I see the gun in her hand.
"Aeron!" Leo calls, still trying to yank off the lump of muscle that is Harvey Bell. "Will you get this shithead off me?"
"Hands off," I say through my teeth, still staring at Rachel. Now I've made eye contact with her, it feels dangerous to lose it.
"The woman is armed." Harvey spits each word. "Sir, you need to go back to your office, and Miss Reeves here needs to—"
"Let her go, Harvey. For fuck's sake." I peel his fingers from Leo's shoulders one by one. "I can take care of this." I have to—before the little bitch talks.
Rachel keeps the gun trained on me, a canvas bag dangling from her other hand. Slowly, I walk toward her, Leo just a few steps behind.
"Stay back," I hiss over my shoulder.
She ignores me. Her expression is unsettling, her black eyes blank.
"Leo. I'm serious. Back the fuck up."
"No," Rachel calls, and we both twist to face her.
Tremors rock her body, rolling down through her arm to make the gun shake. Perhaps she isn't sure which of us she'll shoot first, or maybe she's just shitting bricks because let's be honest—you don't walk into a public building, throw a gun around, and get away with it—and God knows, she was always such a goody two shoes.
I used to talk her down from ratting on me by stroking her belly. Kissing her neck. A fuck lot of good that would do me now, but even then, she's a gauzy ghost of the girl she used to be, narrow and shivering. Blood rushes in my ears, an undercurrent I can't sail away from.
I hold my hands up. Flat palms. My shirt sticks to the valley of my spine, viscous with nervous sweat. "You asked for me."
She may as well be staring right through me. "I—I guess I did."
Leo tries to walk forward, but my arm reaches out of its own accord and wraps around her waist, pulling her in.
"Rach, I'm sorry," she whispers. I doubt the girl hears her over the alarm echoing around the high ceiling.
"Rachel, I swear to God, you hurt her and I'll make you suffer."
"You already made me suffer," Rachel spits. Again, the gun wobbles; she brings it up, aligns it with her narrowed eyes.
"Can we talk?" Leo presses. "We can go somewhere, anywhere..."
"I've been begging for that for so long, though." Rachel's voice cracks. She shakes her head. "Too late. No. Way too late."
"You know I can clear this up," I go on. "If you don't hurt anybody, all of this can go away."
Rachel snorts, and I swear Leo vibrates with a similar sound.
"You want to give me the gun?" I hold my hand out and edge forward, slowly nudging Leo aside.
Rachel's still shaking her head. Her shoulders. Her hand. The girl's like a record that keeps skipping, and the whole lobby aches with it, this tight atmosphere that swings from the muzzle of her gun.
"Give me the gun." I put on my softest persuasive tone, the one I use with Ash. "Come on, princess. I won't bite."
Rachel's jaw trembles so hard that her skin ripples white with it.
A beat. She drops the bag, kicks it toward us. It skids to a halt at Leo's feet, a flurry of papers spilling out across the polished floor.
"I still love you," Rachel yelps over the alarm. "No matter what you did, don't forget that."
The next few seconds happen in flashes.
Her arm jerks.
The gun goes off.
The shot echoes around and around, a painstaking pause between the clatter and the boom.
Shrieking, everywhere. The sour stench of a shot. Leo crumpling against me; my arm sagging in shock.
Rachel on the floor next to a smoking gun, her legs tangled awkwardly, and a receptionist painted in oily red spatter, screaming at the top of her lungs.
I can't catch my breath. It won't come, won't go down, and I swallow and swallow but it's all dry. I shake Leo like a can of her fucking pop, desperate to see her eyes roll open.
She clutches at me and lets off a horrible, defeated wail. "Me," she weeps. "She was talking to me."
SIX YEARS AGO
Mom's house
Aged 26
"Oh, look at that." Mom glances up as I let myself into the living room. She's pacing the tiled floor, Ash in her arms, his burping cloth tossed over her shoulder. "Your brother has decided to grace us with his presence."