That's a dress I created!
The last one I'd ever made.
I was shaking so hard I nearly dropped my phone. My hand twinged; I was close to shutting it off, or throwing it so that it smashed forever.
No. No, this isn't...
It can't be.
I'd never once seen proof of that day five years ago. I'd tried to avoid the news, I never spoke to the police beyond my initial statement, and my therapist never pushed me too hard to discuss it... though I know she'd longed to.
But now, here it was. Real footage of the moment I'd worked so hard to bury deep in my psyche. Old me—old, confident, bold me.
As if I could sense myself in the future, the younger me glanced up, grazing over the camera. I saw my smile—and I saw the person approach me from behind as I waited in that bank line.
Then I remembered everything.
“Nice outfit,” a voice said.
Laughing at the compliment, I spun towards the speaker. I was hoping someone would notice my clothing and say something. If I had any hope of getting accepted to a school for clothing design, I had to test the dresses in the wild and see if they stood out.
It was one of several I'd made to take with me when I left Portland.
“Thanks,” I started to say. And then I stopped.
He smiled at me, his eyes glowing. Something was off, it took my brain a second to make sense of the puzzle in front of me. What was wrong with this man's face?
A mask. He was wearing a mask.
It was black, hiding everything but the pits of his richly amber eyes and his tense smile through the fabric. His finger came up, motioning for me to be quiet.
Then I saw the muzzle of the gun.
“Sorry,” he whispered, training the weapon on me. “I wish there was another way.”
I wanted to say, “Please.” Or maybe, “Why me?” But I couldn't. I was frozen there as he whipped the gun high, warning everyone to stay back.
I was dead, I was going to die.
Fingers dug into my wrist, dragging me towards a wall. “Everyone get on the ground! And you,” he said, pointing at a teller who had dared to lift a phone. “Tell the police I have hostages.” He spoke with a harsh edge, muffled through the mask.
Huddling on the floor by his feet, I peered up as he started whispering to a different teller. In his fingers, a tiny black square shined. “Plug this into your computer,” he snapped. “Hurry up.”
“Okay, okay!” The teller fumbled with the thumb drive, but it must have gone in, because the robber nodded.
His gun clicked, a warning. “Stay there. No one will get hurt if no one moves.” Crouching beside me, he slid out something the size of a cellphone, but it had too many buttons and wires.
The gun rested in his lap, still in his tight grip, and pointing near my feet.
I heard my own voice. “Don't do this, don't shoot anyone.”
He eyed me, then went back to typing. “I won't if you all sit still.”
“Is it money you want?”
His laugh was almost... tired. The vibrations of it shook my teeth to their roots. “I want everything.”
“Here, just take this and leave us all alone.” I dug into my purse, and in hindsight, I was lucky he didn't shoot me, because how could he know if I didn't have a weapon? “It's my bank info,” I said, scribbling on a piece of paper. “My name, my PIN, everything. I've got almost fifty-thousand dollars, take what I have before the cops get here.” I knew if the police arrived, there'd be shots fired for sure.
People would definitely die.
He was no longer tapping at his tiny device. Watching me like I was a new species, he eyed the paper, seeming to read it. Then, he stared at me again. “Why would you do this?”
“It's just money!” My voice came out louder than either of us was ready for; he flinched. “Why should anyone die because of it?”
“That's a question I've asked before.” He took the paper from me, but just as my heart lifted, he tore it to shreds. “I don't want your money, Alexis Willow.” Hearing my name sent ice shards into my gut. I'd written it down, of course he knew it. “I want someone else's.”
“I don't understand,” I said weakly.
“You don't have to.” Then he flipped the device shut, nodding to himself. Rising, he motioned at the teller who hadn't budged. “Give me that back.” Wordlessly, the man handed the black thumb drive over.
The stranger stood tall, his sunset-orange eyes raking the room, taking in every pale and twisted face. People who had families. People who weren't ready to die.
I saw him adjust the pistol, checking the clip. This was it, he was probably counting the bullets to see if there were enough for all of us. I was going to be killed.
And I needed to understand the reason.
“Why me?”
The tip of his gun trained my way, the black in his stare matching the gun's metal. “Because I noticed you. That's the only reason.”