* * *
There’sa harsh grating sound and a mechanical buzz as the garage door slowly begins to peel open. I stand before it like a statue, watching as the gap widens from a sliver to a foot. From one foot to six to twelve. I hold my breath until it’s rolled all the way up in the ceiling, praying like hell the snipers don’t take me down.
The door falls silent and my eyes focus on the world beyond.
There’s a sea of black police vehicles facing the house, their doors ajar to shield the agents sheltering behind them. I see gun barrels braced against car hoods and window frames.
I wonder how many sights are trained on me right now.
I’d swear, there’s a collective intake of air as I raise my arms slowly above my head and take my first step out of the garage, into the driveway — the sound of fifty FBI agents spotting my explosive vest all at once. I take another few steps, coming to a stop when Lefty honks the horn sharply from inside the garage.
You will do exactly what I tell you,he told me ten minutes ago, his eyes gleaming in a scary, unhinged sort of way.And the second you don’t comply… boom goes the dynamite. Got it?
I don’t doubt his intentions for a second. Nor am I surprised by them. As soon as this plan came into being back at the construction site, I somehow knew I’d wind up here. One button-click away from blinking out of existence. Standing entirely on my own.
Alone.
Even now, in the end.
It shouldn’t bother me. For my entire adult life, I’ve perfected the art of being alone. I’ve been so good at it, sometimes I’ve scare myself with my own freakish self-sufficiency. In the question of what I’m more afraid of —being alone or being rejected— the answer was always so clearly rejection.
Because being alone was easier.
In fact, for a very long time, it was almosttooeasy.
But now, as I stand here on my own, with the sun streaming down around me like a freaking halo of light, glinting off the dark panels of plastic explosives on the belt around my waist…
I don’t want to be alone, anymore.
I’d give anything tonotbe alone.
I would happily face a hundred rejections from Conor if it meant there was even one half-chance at having even a bit more time with him. If he could be here now, his arms holding me close, his mouth pressing against mine.
Maybe it’s better if he’s not here,I lie to myself.It would be much harder to say goodbye with him standing in front of you now, at the end.
“I’m Shelby Hunt!” I call out, my voice stretched thin as it tries to fill the void of silence surrounding me. “They say they’ll detonate the bomb in my vest if anyone shoots. They say they want free passage out of the city. Otherwise… I die.”
The world stops turning.
I stand with my hands above my head, afraid to move. Afraid to breathe too heavily, lest I somehow disturb the homemade explosives. My eyes sweep the crowd of FBI agents, seeking out familiar faces.
One in particular.
But he’s nowhere. Not with Kaufman and Evelson by the bullhorn. Not with the plainclothes officers standing to the sidelines. Not with the uniformed BPD officers at the far end of the street, setting up a strict traffic cordon.
Conor Gallagher is nowhere to be found.
A tear streaks down my cheek — the first one I’ve allowed to escape all day. And while I’m sure everyone in the crowd of onlookers thinks I’m crying with fright over my own incendiary predicament…
It’s not about me at all.
It’s about him.
It’s about the truth I can no longer deny, or look away from, or lock up in a box inside my head.
In my heart I know, the only reason he’s not here right now, standing in that crowd… is because he can’t be. Because something is keeping him from me.
I hear Lefty’s voice.