Chapter 1
Oddette
I didn't have time to think.
One second I was wiping my damp hands on my dress, and the next—gunshots. Loud, vicious cracks splitting the air. The kind of sound that stopped breath and logic and everything in between.
I froze in the open doorway of the bathroom, watching panic erupt across the room.
Women screamed.
Children cried.
Everyone was scrambling towards the massive bed like it was a lifeboat the floor had caught on fire.
The bed wasn't meant to hold that many bodies, but they climbed it anyway—piling in top of each other in a makeshift fortress of fright.
More shots. Closer now. The girls scream and I can feel the blood roaring in my ears. My pulse stutters when a particularly loud shot rings a little too close to our room.
I want to move, but I'm frozen. There's nowhere to go. There's no cover for me. All the furniture is too small. There's no way I could get away with hiding anywhere.
Another shot.
There's no time.
I duck behind the behind bed-frame, crouching low as I try glue my scrambled thoughts together.
Someone whispers something, her voice desperate and cracking with tears.
"Play dead. If they come in... no one move. Protect the kids. Don't make a sound."
There are murmurs of agreement, shaky breaths and shuffling. Nobody looks for me. I don't even think I exist in their worlds right now as Betty-a mother of eighteen month on Kensani-starts the head count.
I can hear her mumble, and each time she stops at thirteen. She would start again, making sure that the math is math-ing but my brows furrow.
She keeps stopping at thirteen. That's not right. If I'm not included in the count there should be fourteen of them. Who's missing?
My mind tries to conjure up broken names as the gunshots continue. My eyes dart around the room. There should be fourteen of them—then I spot her.
Frozen.
She's just standing there, her brown curls stuck to her tear-streaked cheeks.
Silent.
Wide eyed.
Ella.
I didn't think. I couldn't afford to. I just farted out far enough to grab her wrist and yank her down with me.
"Shh," I will the shakiness away from my voice, pulling her close. "It's okay. Get under the bed. Go. Quiet."
Ella nods, too stunned to speak. She crawls under, her tiny limbs barely making it through the tiny space.
I stay low, flattening my stomach against the floor and pressing myself into the shadows behind the bed. My heart is racing, lungs tight—I'm too scared to breathe—cheek pressed against the cold tile.
It does nothing to calm me down. I don't think anything can.
Then—everything stopped.
The gunshots ceased.
There's silence. Again.
But this is worse. Footsteps, echo down the hall—measured and deliberate. There's no rush in the shooters stride so this isn't a normal robbery.
This is planned and each footstep is a countdown to our death.
Not rushed.
Not afraid.
Just... coming.
We're dealing with a full blown murdurer.
A psychopath.
We're going to die.
Light bleeds in from underneath the door. I can barely see it under the bed but a shaddow interrupts it. Someone is standing outside.
Waiting.
I don't move. Don't breathe.
Clink.
Something hit the ground just beyond the door. Metal. Heavy.
Then—click
The sound of a gun being loaded. I know that sound from anywhere. A silencer, maybe. It was quiet, but definite.
Deadly.
Then... three soft knocks.
With the barrel of the gun.
He's playing.
A moment passed, the doorknob twisted. The door creaked open—slow, like in a horror movie. I can feel the tension, the distress rolling off all the women present. There's a whisper, a prayer of some sort.
Then—shots.
Pfft. Pfft. Pfft.
Muffled bursts, fast and clean. One, two, three, ten. Each one a punch to the silence.
I can't tell if anyone was hit, but I forced myself not to move, not to make a single sound. I can't afford to. There are no cries, no screams.
I don't dare lift my head.
My nails dig into cracks in the tile.
I counted my breaths
One, two, three,
Then I felt it.
A hand.
Not on my ankle. Not rough, not angry. It touched my shoulder—gently. Fingers spread, warm firm.
I can feel his breath hit against the back of my neck.
I don't move.
I can't.
The hand squeezed.
Then his voice—quiet, smooth, and cold enough to freeze the entirety of my spine.
"Found you."
