❛ It’s my game. And no one can help me. Not even you. ❜
WHO IS SHE ? WHERE IS SHE ?IS SHE EVEN REAL ? questions fill his mind like rain water into a bucket , he couldn’t stop them if he tried , not since he spotted her this morning , her blonde hair and dark eyes peering at him from the edge of the crime scene . caution tape never stopped her before , he knows , and wonders if she’s waiting for him once again – in the shadows , in the corners of darkened rooms in this apartment complex – it wouldn’t be the first time .
hours seemingly pass in the span of minutes ; he enters the building alone knowing his team is on their way – this is no decrepit building , it’s on a side street rather than the edges of some small town . . . his heart begins to race as he approaches the front desk . an elevator dings across the lobby and he glances over his shoulder hoping to see the suspect , but finds the small room empty , as if someone sent the elevator down in invitation – no , nothing more than a coincidence .
tick , tock , tick , tock –
the watch upon his wrist mocks him , showing two minutes come and go when he feels thirty . where is she ? why does he even suspect she’ll be here ? perhaps he saw no more than a lookalike . maybe it wasn’t her – maybe , maybe , maybe , but no answers to his questions . nothing solid .
he raps knuckles upon the door in question , the key a bit of metal in his large hand , retrieved from the front desk after flashing his badge . ❝ michael grant , this is the FBI , open the door . ❞ does his voice echo down the hall – no , of course it wouldn’t . yet . . . the door creaks open and he steps one foot across the threshold to keep it from closing . no one stands behind the door . he knows , somehow , before entering that the apartment will be empty .
tick , tock , tick , tick , tick , tick –
he hears her voice before he sees her , like a video buffering , like she was here when he cleared the apartment but standing elsewhere , like she’s been waiting .
❝ where is he ? ❞ he asks , tone stern as he turns to face her . the agent doesn’t ask how she got here , or why , or when , because something in him doesn’t want to know . he wants answers to safer questions . ❝ four people have been murdered ; this isn’t a game . ❞ but she’s not talking about the case , he realizes , without knowing how . he adjusts his posture , physically towering over her while feeling their stances are the opposite : something in her is larger than he could ever be . his spine tingles , warning , warning running up and down his vertebrae .
his team should’ve been here by now .
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
kianamaiart
turnnoffyourmind
