Chapter 3

Scarlett’s POV

The mourning process took anywhere from twelve to seventy-two hours. Any suffering after that was entirely intentional, barring the onset of PTSD, which could take up to a month following the traumatic event.

The poor sap. The wealthy wasted their money on frivolous pursuits, but the human mind was a tricky organ. Who knew how much pain he was in, especially considering how much he didn’t want to show it?

I planned to attend Thursday’s meeting. “While I’m gone, I need you to do one thing for me,” I let him know. He only gave me a nod with an eyebrow lift. “Just remember all the good meals you had with Adele whenever she comes to mind.”

What I was saying sounded horribly backward, but bear with me. Nothing compared to it. There was no point in me telling the man to forget about his daughter or telling him to quit needing her. It wouldn’t work because we couldn’t put a block on his thoughts about her, and he would think about her whether we wanted him to or not. Instead of dwelling on the moment when her life was taken from her in front of his eyes by a nonchalant push of a trigger, he could instead grieve the good times they enjoyed and reflect on those.

He merely said, “Thank you,” as he saw me leaving. I left with a reassuring grin on my face. Still, my world was actually in shambles — possibly more so than his right now, given his lack of anxiety and stress. Sadness alone. I wished I felt sad at times like these. The feeling of bewilderment was even worse.

The simple fact that nobody could predict the future lured us into constant anticipation of the unknown. A person’s life could be shattered instantly, and every action we did was a blind gambit into the vast unknown. Because of this, we evolved to appreciate routines.

Humans took great pleasure in our inventions and our ability to master several disciplines, but the truth was that it all came down to one thing.

Preparation.

Everything we’d done up to that point had been anticipating what was to come. We created timetables because knowing that whatever lay ahead had been thought out and was easily manageable was reassuring. When an outside factor was added that slightly altered that plan, our every move became a terrifying riddle that our nature refused to acknowledge.

When I left the safety of my apartment building, my anxiety levels skyrocketed. Despite my outward composure and the clarity of my thinking, I was filled with a dread that only surfaced when I saw a tall, looming figure standing over my car like devils gushing out of a body sprinkled with holy water. How could I be sure about his height? The guy towered above everyone else.

“G… Evening, I apologize, but it is my car,” I did my best to retain a confident tone while seeming nice. I knew it was tough.

There was silence from him.

“Okay, let’s avoid paranoia. Perhaps he is wearing headphones and can’t hear me,” I thought. Despite my best efforts at comfort, I walked toward the car.

“A gunshot will ring out in precisely 30 seconds. Still, you won’t pay any attention to it since, in the following microseconds, just 7 minutes of brain activity will remain. You will be unable to feel any kind of discomfort. You have no idea what has transpired,” the guy just greeted me in this weird, slightly eerie way. I hung on to every word that came out of his mouth.

“That’s your issue, pal. I’m going to have to ask you to move. You have obstructed my car,” I made a hesitant stride in his direction. As I mentioned before, doubt constantly hovered over our heads. Fear of the unknown had been joined with fear of the recommended, tripling the scale of these uncertainties.

“…In two, one…” he started counting. His tone was so stern that I flinched when he said, “…Now!”

Somehow, perhaps out of reaction, the slightest movement of my neck sent a burning whoosh past my ear and into a solid concrete pillar directly behind me.

My entire being trembled as I said, “Oh God.”

“What can I say? I didn’t think you could do it,” the dude cracked a huge grin.

“That thing could have killed me,” I sobbed horribly at the thought of the man enjoying seeing my brains splatter on the ground.

The fact that it didn’t happen boded well for our efforts thus far. He said it so casually that it calmed me down about as much as you can relax when a sniper’s bullet narrowly misses you.

“Now, there are some things in some situations that don’t have to be said twice.” With a groan, he spun around. “Let’s get out of here.”

Actually, he was correct. There was no point in restating that. I was physically in his company but not mentally. My mind constantly raced with scenarios in which the sniper took another aim at me. Maybe he’d get lucky.

“I have no idea why I’m sticking with you. No, I don’t recognize you either. Who the hell are you? Are you a killer?” We left the parking lot and went into an open area, and I asked as I followed him quickly enough to be within arm’s reach but not too close.

When he spoke, he didn’t glance back. “If you have any questions for the sniper, I suggest you return to the parking lot and ask them there. Your self-assurance leads me to believe that you use bulletproof language.”

“You make a valid point there,” I responded.

When he reminded me that a gunman was lurking at least 300 meters away, I accelerated my movements to get in line with him, away from where I thought the shot had come.

“I rented a car that can go up to 190 kilometers per hour because, you know, cars get us where we’re going a lot faster.”