Elara
The danger doesn’t knock. It waits.
I don’t see him first — I see his car.
Parked across the street from the library.
Marcus always drove black. Always parked where he could see the entrance without being obvious. Always watched before approaching. The sedan idles too long, angled for a quick exit, windows tinted just enough.
My lungs forget how to work.
I step back from the window too quickly and nearly knock over a stack of returned books. My hands shake so badly I press them flat against the desk to steady them.
He came early.
He didn’t wait for the flight.
He came himself.
The front door chime rings.
Every nerve in my body ignites.
I don’t look at first.
I can’t.
Footsteps cross the tile — measured, controlled, familiar.
“Excuse me.”
His voice is smooth. Falsely w
