"And they're askin' me if I can see the darkness down below,
And I know it's true, I say I do, when half the time I don't
Maybe I can't make what it may take to leave this thing behind
But I shut my eyes and cross each line"
- Mike Shinoda, "Make It Up As I Go"
Chapter Four
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I'd never been so aware of the progression of time – or the fragility of it. I'd never paid attention to how easy it was to lose track of it. To hear it. To run out of it.
I hadn't realized how short my time had been. How much of it I had to lose. I'd never known how easy it was to alter time's steady course. If someone laid their head on my chest, could they hear the slow tick of the clock inside of me? How it warned my time was running out?
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Not even a full second had stood between me and a bullet. Not even an entire moment had stood as the shield between life and death. I'd been saved by a sliver of a whole. A fraction of a moment; the difference between living and...
Tick. Tick. Tick.
What if Sterling hadn't noticed? What if he'd tripped, or bumped into someone? What if his steps had been incrementally slower? Would I have been at the other end of the bullet instead of the marble floor?
Where did I begin to comprehend that? How? How did I come to terms with how close it'd been? How close I still was to the danger I'd only narrowly escaped?
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Was that the ringing in my ears from the burst of a gun or the sound of my dwindling time?
We reached the edge of the foyer. Long halls branched off from either side of the entrance, leading to different wings of the house and flanking the stairs. We'd made our way to the west wing as we escaped from that perilous room.
Sterling slammed us against the wall as soon as we turned the corner, pulling me behind him. His body half-covered mine as we sunk to a low crouch. I couldn't breathe as I flattened my spine against the wallpaper. I couldn't think as I clutched Sterling's jacket like he'd desert me. His head never stopped moving and his arm was still flung out to keep me in place. It didn't make a difference. I wasn't going anywhere.
He peeked around the corner. The screams and shouts were becoming muffled and faint as the panicked masses threw themselves out the front doors. The stampede was loud. I couldn't hear it the way I was supposed to.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I made to stand when I saw the exits that'd been hurled open in desperate escape, but Sterling's arm pressed hard against me, forcing me back down.
"No," he mouthed. "Wait."
His eyes didn't wait for my response before they resumed their careful documentation of the room.
If I'd thought he was tightly coiled before, I'd been sorely mistaken. But it wasn't panic, I realized, that rolled off in unending waves from him, or even fear. It was an unfamiliar type of calm. The type of calmness that informed me he wasn't only aware of the direness of our situation, he was prepared for it. He was ready for it. He was familiar with it in a way I wasn't. A way I never wanted to be.
And yet, I couldn't fully decipher the look in his eye. It was a look of calm, yes, but it was also the look of a pent-up foal released to run – and running was what it was made for. The loosening of his reins was the tightening of a noose around my neck.
My hand hovered over the ground as my knees groaned in protest from the extended squat. My voice was a shaky whisper. "Why aren't we running?"
Sterling didn't answer for a moment; he edged his face past the edge of the wall for a better look of the room. He looked towards the back of the foyer near the stairs, then his head jerked back. "They may be waiting outside. We're not going anywhere until we have more information."
His hand flew up to his ear. I muffled my fear at the sudden movement, dizzy as I watched him press his earpiece. "Romano. 10-20."
After a moment, he repeated himself.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
A silent curse pushed out of his mouth. Clearly, he hadn't gotten the answer he'd wanted, or expected – or he hadn't gotten one at all.
I was never religious, at least not in my adulthood. I never used to pray. I didn't know how to start; I didn't know who to pray to. But I felt the urge to force a prayer as the noose further tightened.
"Let's go."
There was no crack in his voice, no hesitation. No sign of the fear that affected the feeling in my fingers and legs. There was only urgency and stone.
Sterling's back still held a slight hunch when he stood and pulled me with him. His hand steered me so I faced the hall in front of us, and he nudged me forward, staying close as we hurried down the hall. I was torn between running and ducking, hiding and fleeing, crying and dying. I could feel the brush of his hand as it hovered over my back. He was ready to guide or push if I faltered, but it wasn't needed.
The more I moved, the easier it was. I had no idea where I was going, but I was sure as hell getting away from that damn foyer.
"This way," he said abruptly, hand shooting out to stop me. He turned us towards a white door, and stepped behind me to reach for the handle; so close his chest shadowed my back.
In any other situation, I probably would've been a little irked about the lack of personal space. I probably would've scoffed at his audacity. But right then, as I fled for my life, I reveled in the closeness of someone else. I cherished the security of someone who knew what they were doing. I didn't want to leave his side. I didn't know how or why, but Sterling had saved my life. I knew he was currently my best chance at getting out.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Sterling pushed open the door to reveal a dark room. He guided me in, and the lights flickered on as soon as we entered.
The room wasn't decorated like the other spaces in the Cruz house. Those all bore the blessing of Amanda and displayed bold accents and brilliant colors; this small room contained a wide, dark-stained desk and a plush desk chair. A similarly-colored onyx couch stretched out across the other side of the room, and a dual monitor setup sat sternly on the desk. The walls were a bright white like the door. It almost looked like a waiting room; everything was in such striking contrast.
I stepped further in, glancing behind me to see Sterling close the door and turn to a keypad. His body blocked the pad as he typed.
With a quiet thump, the clutch I hadn't realized I was still holding fell to the floor. My hands wouldn't listen to pick it up as I stared at the small bag sprawled across the rich brown tile.
He typed that in so fast. That wasn't a short code, that was at least eight digits. He just has the security codes to Cruz's house engrained in his brain?
A slight pull at the back of my brain unsettled me. Didn't the new security team members just onboard yesterday? How did he know that so fast?
And if he'd been around longer, if he'd been a part of the team that'd joined on Monday, why hadn't I met him? Where was he?
Exactly who the hell is this guy?
Romano trusted him so maybe that had to count for something.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Surely it counted for something.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Or I am locked in a room with someone I don't know, who could be involved in what just happened. He knows I used to be a part of Cruz's team — a close part.
Sterling turned as the keypad beeped. A heavy thud echoed through the room as the door locked. I didn't know the code to get back out. I reached for silver linings to soothe the anxious ache, because at the very least, I was away from the gunman.
But that relief didn't last long. The dark core of reality quickly smashed those silver linings into glass I was forced to swallow; into the painfully sharp truth I had no idea how to escape if I needed to. I'd only met the man in front of me less than an hour earlier. The same man who, while trusted by the head of security, could very well have given into bribes, blackmail, or inherent corruption.
Sterling eyed me, his gaze intently burning me like it'd convince me to plead guilty, or spill my secrets right then and there. His green eyes were hard. No hesitation. Assessing a threat.
A new avalanche of questions threatened to buckle my already unsteady knees.
Does he suspect me as being involved? Is he involved? Did he just lock us in, or did he lock them out?
Sterling kept his eyes on me as he quickly crossed the room; he swooped down and grabbed my clutch, pressing it into my stiff fingers before I could blink. Then he headed to the desk. He leaned forward, waking up the monitors with impatient speed as my body slowly turned to face him.
Behind the presidential desk, he looked ready to press the nuclear button, or send one hell of an email. My wrist looped through the strap on the clutch; I didn't trust myself not to drop it again, and I needed the anchor.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
"Sterling, what's going on?" I fought hard to keep my voice steady, feeling the lump in my throat threaten to become a quiver. "You need to keep me updated."
Hopefully that sounded commanding. At least my voice didn't tremble. Why the hell won't my ears stop ringing?
"Romano. 10-20," Sterling calmly said into his earpiece, ignoring me completely. His hands flew across the keyboard. "Argentum, 10-12."
"Sterling, answer me," my voice raised as I stepped forward. "You just dragged me into a locked room after I almost... after people almost got shot. You do not get to ignore me right now."
My chest hurts and I can't feel my heart. Do I usually feel my heart? Is it beating really fast or really slow? Which one is worse?
Sterling looked up before returning his eyes to the screens. "You should take a seat. We may be here for a while."
He glanced towards the couch. I felt like a child that'd been redirected.
"Take a seat? What do you mean 'we may be here for a while'?" My voice was raising even louder, and I could feel panic clawing up my spine. "I don't even know where 'here' is — this is a locked room I've never seen before."
Breathe. What if they hear you? Oh, God.
I couldn't breathe, but I did lower my voice. I didn't know who was outside the room — hell, I didn't know who was inside.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I couldn't shake the itch at the back of my brain. Why was Sterling being so calm? Being trained for situations was one thing; it was expected as a member of a security team usually assigned to high-risk targets. And of course, being calm was preferable over panic — but keeping me in the dark? Being so prepared after what could've only been a day, or a few days at the very most, of preparation?
Even if he'd started on Monday with Romano, and I'd just happened to miss meeting him, no one would be that familiar with the Cruz house in such a short period of time. No one would be that familiar with the Cruz security codes. Surely, no one could be that good at their job. There'd have to be some underlying drive or motive to be so damn good.
A nervous, psychotic laugh quietly bubbled out of my throat. It was breathy from the lack of oxygen; my lungs were still sustaining an extended struggle to garner air from raspy gasps. I was sure I sounded deranged.
"God, I was just shot at! At my boss's retirement party of all places. Then, I'm locked in a room, and oh, god. A bullet just almost hit me. I almost died. But that's fine, no, you keep typing. When you're done typing your last will and testament, let me have a turn," I choked out between quiet, painful laughs.
I couldn't stop. It felt like I was trapped in my mind as my body turned inside out, every cell rearranging as it realized what it was going through. I was trapped in a box in my brain as tornado sirens blared through every neuron;
every synapse was snapping and my vision became focused like a laser on the wall behind Sterling. Sound waves in my ears curled helplessly into themselves.
I'm shutting down. I am in a life and death situation and I'm shutting down — well, that's nice to know, I'm literally useless. I'll have to put that on my Christmas card this year.
In my peripheral view I saw Sterling go still, his hands hovering over the keyboard. I couldn't see him directly; my eyes were incapable of moving even the slightest from the wall, but I could feel his gaze.
Burning, evaluating, judging.
Deciding.
Sterling straightened and drew to his full intimidating height. His body was completely controlled, every movement so carefully measured and evaluated like he'd been planning it for years; deciding and redeciding the best move, weighing and contemplating.
And there I was, unable to feel my hands.
Real nice control, Avery. Real nice.
Sterling took a slow step from behind the desk. My eyes stayed on the wall. He took another step. He was to the side of the desk then.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
He took a step forward; the gap between us was only a few feet. Another step. My body tensed, every muscle contracting so tight I was sure I'd never be relaxed again.
And another step.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
He was two feet away. He was close enough to reach me; one more step and I'd be more than within his reach.
Move. Move your goddamn feet. Move AWAY. You don't know him. You have no idea what he's doing. MOVE. Move. Your. Feet.
I didn't move, and with a steady and assured step forward, Sterling closed the gap.
"Miss Woodsen. What do you see?"
His voice was low and calm, like he was talking to an injured, cornered animal. I didn't understand. The ache in my muscles got even worse; my body still tightly wound and ready to run.
Guess that's exactly what he's doing. It feels like I'm a caged, but out-of-control animal, and I have no idea if I'll bite or run. I don't know who's in control right now — I don't know who's in control of myself.
"What?" My voice came out rough and cracked. The lack of oxygen must've reached my vocal cords.
My eyes stayed on the wall, but began to twitch. My lungs, which were increasingly feeling a faint burn, seemed to completely lock up now; my body was tapping out.
Too much. It's too much. I came here to say goodbye — but not like this. Tonight was supposed to be heartfelt, but only because I'm leaving the state, not because I'm leaving in a body bag.
That was certainly the direction I felt I was heading in. My hands were definitely numb; I couldn't tell if my heart was beating fast or slow. My lungs weren't getting oxygen and my eyes were incapable of moving.
I could see the newsclip already.
Avery Woodsen, 24, died Friday night due to symptoms corresponding with heart failure. Despite surviving a near fatal shooting at the retirement party for former Attorney General Derek Cruz, Woodsen's body was unable to withstand the stress of the disturbance. Woodsen worked closely with the Attorney General for four years. In lieu of flowers, please send donations to Females for the Future, a non-profit dedicated to elevating young women to realize their potential.
"What can you see?"
Sterling's voice broke me out of writing my obituary. His eyes were focused on mine, but my own were intently set on the bright white wall.
Why are the walls so white? Amanda couldn't have chosen this.
"Tell me what you see, Miss Woodsen," Sterling commanded. His low, even tone unfurled the soundwaves in my ears.
My brain took a beat to roll over his words before responding. "I see a wall."
"Okay. What else can you see?"
"Nothing."
Sterling shifted his weight, blocking my view of the wall. "What else can you see, Miss Woodsen?"
"I can... I can see you." My voice was quiet, quieter than I'd ever been, quieter than I'd ever thought I could be.
"What about me?" His voice was smooth. "What do I look like?"
The tension in my body eased ever so slightly. My eyes rose to his, taking in every inch on the way up. From the unbuttoned suit, still so perfectly pressed despite the crouching and running, and to the crisp white shirt underneath. To the pure black silk tie tied neatly at the base of his throat. Finally, my gaze swooped past the sharp jaw and stern nose to his eyes, hidden behind long, curly lashes. Hard, strong eyes that offered nothing but unreadable walls.
Why can't I read his eyes? It's my job to read people.
Another ounce of tension seeped from my body into the ground. My voice came out a little steadier, but just as quiet as before. "Mr. Sterling, I hope you aren't fishing for a compliment at a time like this."
"Miss Woodsen, I don't need to go 'fishing', but humor me if you will. What can you see?" His eyes remained hard, and his demeanor was still on edge, but his lips twitched. Maybe. It was hard to tell; my eyes weren't reliable at the moment.
"I see a dark suit. I see you. You're a member of the security team."
Sterling nodded. "That's right. I am. What can you hear?"
I stood still for a moment before answering. "I can hear the computer. The fan is loud. And I can hear you. You've been talking into your earpiece."
I was explaining things to myself. Not to him, but to my brain who was struggling to piece together pieces of sensory information that was provided in scraps.
"What did you say? On the earpiece?" My voice became a little louder. I remembered him saying numbers, calling for Quentin, and... Latin? "What did the numbers mean?"
"10-20, I was asking for Romano's location. 10-12, I was letting whoever was listening know I wasn't alone and to speak accordingly." His sentences were short. He didn't say a word he didn't have to, always direct and to the point.
My brain buzzed a little more. Something didn't add up. "Why are you telling me what they mean?"
"You just asked, Miss Woodsen," he said back. He was still patient. I wondered if he thought I needed things explained like a child; if shock had dulled my wit and comprehension.
"No. Why are you telling me what they mean? Codes are used for a reason."
I searched his eyes intently, feeling a bit of tension reabsorbed back into my body. Asking and expecting an answer weren't always found hand in hand. He owed me answers, but not that one. Truth was easy to give when there was no chance of it leaving the room. "You didn't have to answer."
"That was shorthand. Basic radio codes. You could've easily googled it." His eyes never broke from my own, an impassable wall betraying none of his emotions. "I saved you some time."
I stayed silent; I didn't know what to say. Could I trust him? I should trust him. I had no real reason to believe I couldn't. I really should trust him. He worked for Quentin. They said he was the best. I should trust him. I should be grateful he saved me.
Would he have done that if he was behind it in the first place?
Maybe, if I wasn't the intended target. Or if they needed me alive. What if this was the plan all along? So much for no reason not to trust him. Being shot at is reason enough.
"Miss Woodsen, what can you feel?"
"'Avery'."
"I'm sorry?" The slightest bit of confusion flashed across his eyes.
"My name is not 'Miss Woodsen'. It's Avery. This is not an interrogation," I snipped.
His eyes resumed their careful evaluation of me. The patience was waning.
Tick. Tick.
"You're right. It's not," he agreed. "What do you feel?"
"I feel the floor. I feel my shoes."
My brain hummed when it realized the smallest ounces of tension had slipped into the floor again without my realization.
"Do you feel your hands?" Sterling coolly asked.
"My hands?"
My gaze dropped in confusion. My hands were so tightly balled that my knuckles were white, and the clutch hung limply from my wrist, leaving behind an angry red line from the strap. My hands looked lifeless. I felt a slippery wetness in my palms.
Sweat? Blood? I don't want to know.
My hands released from their tight fists and flexed, my joints wailing in pain.
"I suppose so. I hadn't realized." My eyes slid back to Sterling's.
Tick.
"Miss Wood— Avery. We're in a safe room. Please sit on the couch." Sterling gestured to the couch pressed against the wall.
I swallowed and nodded, stepping away from Sterling. "Right. I apologize."
"Don't apologize. Breathe. You're not able to answer questions or be a witness if you're not able to process and vocalize."
Sterling turned and returned to the desk. He perched ever so slightly on the chair, as if he didn't want to sit, but was forced to in order to type faster.
What questions? Questions about what happened? Or questions as in what I had to do with it? He said "or".
I couldn't shake the look in his eyes when we'd entered the room; it'd been too accusing for my liking.
I wondered, was that an "or" as in he didn't know what my part was yet? Was I either someone to be questioned or a witness? Was he really saying, 'answer questions about your involvement'? Why would he suspect the person who'd just been shot at? Was I overthinking it?
Had he given me any reason to believe he suspected me?
I slowly sat on the very edge of the couch. Most of the tension had left my body, but I was still greatly unnerved.
My adrenaline won't be coming down for a while.
"Romano. 10-20."
Sterling's expression shifted ever so slightly.
He must've finally gotten a response.
"Safe room three, sir. One round. No shooter identified. Intercepted before hit."
Intercepted before hit. He's talking about tackling me to the ground. Three words is all he's using to describe how he saved my life.
"Argentum 10-26."
Sterling faced the screens, turned slightly away from me. He could see my shaken form if he moved, but his attention was on the computers and on Quentin in his ear.
My hands shook as they moved to the clutch, slipping it off my wrist and opening the clasp. I tried to keep my movements small as I tugged and wrestled my phone out of the tight fit. Eventually, I succeeded, and my phone lit up with an endless number of texts, calls, news alerts, and more already crashing in. I ignored them and swiped up to find the search bar. My fingers shook as I typed. My eyes hovered on the results, and my breath caught in my throat; a sickening halt over an aching lump.
10-26. Detaining subject. Expedite response.
My gut was right — I was a suspect. And I didn't have an idea in hell why.
Tick. Tick.
Boom.