Page 11

SABINA

Cassian's blood stains my hands, smearing up my wrists and turning cold against my knees where it all soaked into my clothes.

I've never seen so much blood before.

I've never seen someone shot.

It doesn't make sense.

None of this makes sense.

"You can't just leave him there!" I say as the younger of the men shoves me back into the van. "At least call an ambulance for him or something!"

"Will you shut the fuck up?" He raises his fist, and I barely have time to cover my face before the blow lands against my cheek and sends me back down onto the floor of the van. The doors close and the van rumbles back to life, then we drive away, leaving poor Cassian to die by the side of the road.

This… is a nightmare. None of this makes any sense to me, but alone in the dark in the back of the van, I have no choice but to huddle in the corner and draw my legs up to my chest. I start wrapping my arms around my knees until I remember the blood, so I change my mind as my stomach twists knots around my racing heart.

Guns in the flour, these angry men, an insane car chase, and now that kindly man from the restaurant is going to die in the middle of a dark street.

Is this me? Did I do something that's caused all of this? Maybe I shouldn't have asked questions. I should have handed them all the money from the till. Would that have been enough? Bags upon bags of flour filled with weapons and they acted like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Cassian's blood turns tacky against my fingertips so I drop my hands to my waist and start trying to wipe them clean against my shirt. It doesn't work. What comes off isn't enough to remove the painful dryness on my fingertips or the tightness around my knuckles where blood has stuck and dried.

I can still feel him.

The warmth of his thigh and the frantic pulse of blood against my palm from the wound on his thigh. I've worked as a chef for a long time and I'm used to injuries. Years ago, one of the sous chefs cut off two fingers, and I thought that was the most traumatic injury I'd ever seen.

I was wrong.

It will be my fate as well, won't it? They'll take me wherever the hell we're going and then shoot me, leaving me to die in the middle of nowhere with no help and no hope. Tears build again as I close my eyes and knock my head back against the wall of the van.

What the fuck am I supposed to do?

The two men remain up front in the van this time and they talk in hushed voices. The only thing that comes through clear to me is a curse word here and there, and something about a suit. Nothing that makes sense. I sink my teeth into the side of my cheek and stare through the dark at the wobbling crates of fruit and veg as my heart sinks.

Loss floods my chest and on my next blink, the tears finally escape. They claw hot paths down my cheeks as a cold numbness rises in my body and I start to shake. It starts at my knees and spreads up my thighs, then my entire body quivers as if my racing heart is using my ribcage as an instrument, then it sweeps upward until even my tongue trembles in my mouth. Every breath is rapid and weak, every swallow is tight, and my teeth clack together until I clench my jaw.

I'm going to die.

They're taking me somewhere and I'm going to die.

I always imagined dying at home at the end of a long life, though not one too long. With everything I've been through in this life, the prospect of living until ninety was far too exhausting. Making it to fifty was a nice middle ground. Fate, it seems, has other plans and I'm going to die before I even turn thirty.

The van finally pulls to a stop after what feels like forever and both men leave. A long silence follows, one that drags on for so long that I begin to think they've forgotten all about me.

Wishful thinking.

Not long after, the back doors wrench open and the younger man stands there with his gun in his hand.

"Out," he barks, motioning at me. "Come on, hurry the fuck up."

My joints complain and my back aches as I slowly climb to my feet, then I walk to the back opening on unsteady legs like a baby deer. As I move to climb down, he reaches for my arms and drags me out by the elbow. I land in a puddle and chilling water splashes up the backs of my legs.

"Please let me go," I whimper. "I-I won't tell anyone about the guns, or—or what happened in the street, I swear."

He smirks at me. "Con, she says she won't tell anyone."

The older man stands nearby, lighting up a cigarette that gives his eyes a fiery glow. "She won't?"