Page 4 of Who's Afraid of the Big, Bad World

Noah didn’t think. He just reacted. And threw himself through the door after her, narrowly making it into the room before the concealed entrance slammed shut behind them.

Chapter Two

Annabelle found it difficult to remain upright. The floor felt as though it were made of sponge, and the walls seemed to move in and out. She staggered to the corner beside the desk and sank into the narrow space. She drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them tight. Shapes were distorted, the air felt thick, and nothing was as it seemed. It was as though she was looking at the world from the bottom of a swimming pool.

And she wasn’t alone.

Maybe?

A small part of her brain insisted she was hallucinating.

But he looked real to her. And she was sure she’d never met him before. She would have remembered. He reminded her of a bulldog in its fighting prime, all broad shoulders, compact muscle, and controlled strength. If he thought his sports blazer gave him a more civilized air, he was wrong. He wore faded jeans with a neatly pressed T-shirt and carried a gun—she’d caught a glimpse the holster at his waist when he rushed after her into the room.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said softly. His voice was rich and warm. At odds with his rugged appearance.

“Wh-what do you w-want?” Unlike her captor, she sounded tight and terrified.

“To help you.”

“By k-keeping me p-prisoner?” He stood in front of the door, blocking her escape. Controlling her… Her teeth chattered she was shaking so hard, and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath.

Slow breathing, slow and deep. Inhale, one, two, three. Exhale, one, two, three.

“I’m not keeping you here,” he murmured. “I only followed you in because I really need to talk to you. The district attorney’s office sent me to help you.”

The man headed to the wall farthest from the door, moving slowly. He lowered himself to the floor beside the unused camping toilet, stretched his legs out in front of him, and crossed his legs at the ankles.

Her gaze darted between him and the door.

“You can leave anytime you want,” he said. His low, soothing voice, with its gentle rolling accent of one of the southern states, had a calming effect on her, even though she didn’t want it to.

But then again, it could just be that she was zoning out. It took all of her energy to concentrate on what was happening around her when all she wanted was to sleep. Hesitantly, never taking her eyes off him, she got to her feet and, back to the wall, inched along the desk toward the door.

“My name’s Noah Merchant.” He seemed completely unbothered by her glacial attempt to escape. “I can show you my ID if you’d like?”

Annabelle licked her dry, cracked lips as the room swayed around her. “B-bad guys have ID too.”

His lips curled. “True. But most of them are fake. Mine’s real.”

She frowned at him. Was he joking with her? She reached up to push her hair away from her face and felt her skin burn.Fever. Flu. It came back to her in a rush. She’d caught the flu from the woman who delivered her groceries and had taken some medicine. A vague recollection of emptying the bottle surfaced in her mind. Had she drunk too much? Was this all just a feverish dream?

“Are you real?” she asked the stranger.

Would a hallucination tell her the truth?

“Sometimes I wonder.” He slowly reached into his jacket and pulled out a wallet. He flipped it open in a gesture she’d seen TV cops make a thousand times. “I work for Benson Security. We’ve been hired by the DA’s office to get you to safety. Here’s my ID. I don’t have an official badge, but you can call the assistant DA for verification.” He carefully tossed it toward her.

Without thinking, she reached for it. Fumbling before she caught it. Once she had it, she froze. Was this a trick? Would he lunge at her now and try to subdue her? Her heart pounding against her rib cage, she waited to see what he’d do. But he didn’t move. He just watched her, quietly waiting.

Fingers trembling, she opened the leather wallet. His ID appeared behind a plastic window, the words blurring as she tried to read them. It took a while, but she eventually realized she was looking at an Atlantic City driver’s license that’d expired two years earlier. The name on it was Noah Merchant.

The worn edge of a photo peeked out from behind the license. Annabelle pried it free, aware that her movements were awkward. A studio portrait of a happy family stared up at her. Two parents and two kids, all of them smiling. One of the parents was Noah.

“Even criminals have families,” she muttered.

“True.” He nodded. “In my time as an Atlantic City cop, I met plenty.”

“How do I know this is real?” She was talking to herself because a bad guy, or a hallucination, wouldn’t give her an answer she’d believe.