Anna
There’s a knock at the door. I go to it and say, “Yes?”
“It’s me,” Samson says. His voice is different, somehow, strained. Not panicky—I find it difficult to believe Samson Black could ever be panicky—but I know that something’s happened without having to ask.
I open the door and he paces into the room. His shoulders shifting from side to side like a man who’s about to be in a fight.
“Lock the door behind me,” he says. “Bolt it.”
I turn the lock, latch the chain, and slide the bolt. Then I go to the couch and sit down, watching as Samson paces up and down the room, his hands tight fists by his sides. He looks scary, the kind of man women cross the street to avoid: a pulsing pack of muscle and rage. I should be scared, I should flinch away, but I’m not and I don’t.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Everything,” he sighs. “We need to leave here, right now.”
“What? What do you mean?”
Last night I was dancing and thinking about my next exam. Last night I was thinking about the turnstile and the dogs and animals and the future. How does life change so drastically so quickly?
“I don’t have time to explain,” he says. “Quickly, get your things.”
He gestures at me.
“No,” I say. I don’t raise my voice, but I speak firmly. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
“Anna . . .”
“Samson . . .”
We face each other. His jaw is set, but so is mine. I stare into his sky-blue eyes without flinching. “You want me to run away from my life, Samson,” I say. “You can’t expect me to do that without asking a few questions. Something happened out there. I can tell. You’re skittish.”
“I know who put the body in your trunk,” he sighs. He massages the side of his head with his hand. It’s odd to see him do this, as though he really is just a man, as though he does feel stress like the rest of us.
“Who?” I ask.
He tells me everything. Her name is River, she’s an ex-girlfriend, they worked together, all of it, about the boat and the job and that he thought she was dead.
“It could be somebody pretending to be her,” I offer.
He shakes his head and then tells me about the cabin. I blush. I don’t want to think about Samson and another woman.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
Absurdly, despite everything, I find myself wishing it was someone else, anybody else. An old client or an escaped target. Anybody but an ex-girlfriend. I tell myself that I’m focusing on the wrong part of it. But I care about it and I can’t deny that. Without thinking about it, I’ve begun to think of Samson as mine. Silly, yes, very silly, and yet it’s the truth. And when I look at him I’m sure he’s begun to think of me as his. An instant connection that is all passion and instinct, with little recourse to logic. I’ve read about connections like this, but I’ve never experienced one until now. What is it, exactly? Infatuation? Attraction? Not love, surely, not so soon.
“It’s okay,” I mutter. “But I have to admit, it makes it worse.”
“I know,” he says.
He walks around the coffee table, reaches down, and takes my hand. “Come on,” he says, pulling me gently to my feet. “You need to pack a bag, Anna. Clothes, anything sentimental you can’t bear to leave behind. Make it light, if you can.”
“Do you think she’ll try and . . . hurt me?” I pause partly out of fear, and partly because it seems ridiculous. Why would this stranger wish me harm? I’m tempted to think it’s out of jealously, but she moved the body before Samson stayed at my place, so that can’t be it, can it?
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Samson says.
“But why?”
Samson shrugs. “I have no idea. Maybe she knew my mark was your ex-husband, and she wanted to make a point?” He shakes his head. “But honestly, I don’t know. I knew her years ago. She’s probably a completely different person now.”
“Well, not so different,” I say. “It seems she still knows the business.”
“Yeah.”
A pause, and then Samson nods to the bedroom. “Please, Anna, pack a bag.”
“Look me in the eye and tell me I’m in real danger. Tell me I have to leave. Promise me. Because I don’t want to run from my life, Samson, not if it can be avoided.”
He reaches forward, touches my cheek with his hand, warm, callused and yet somehow soft. “I swear to you, Anna, you’re in danger. I only want to protect you.”
“I believe you,” I murmur.
I take his hand, kiss it, and then go into the bedroom.
I pack clothes, three veterinary books, two novels signed by the authors, the collar of my childhood dog, Skippy, and a folded photograph of Mom, holding me in her arms as a baby, and smiling brightly. I shoulder the pack and return to the living room.
Samson moves around the room methodically with a rag in his hand, wiping down every surface. I wait near the door as he wipes the apartment from top to bottom. Then he joins me at the door, stuffing the rag into his pocket.
“Less than twenty-four hours ago,” I say, “you were just a handsome man at the game. Just a rich handsome man who caught my eye.”
“What am I now?” he asks.
“A rich handsome man who has pulled me into a world I never dreamed I’d be a part of.”
“Still—rich and handsome. That’s not so bad.”
He smiles, a smile meant to break through the panic and the mayhem.
I return the smile and stand on my tiptoes and kiss him on the lips.
“Not so bad at all,” I agree, and together we leave the apartment.