Epilogue #2
those are the first questions that come to mind. Truly, why wouldn’t he disappear now that he’s somehow gotten himself free?
How could revenge and hatred burn this hot in someone?
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I can do both,” he says, and a chill runs through me. I look at Raff and see he’s gone white as
a ghost. His eyes flit from the guard to me, filled with panic, and I can tell he’s desperate to do something, to save me.
But there is nothing he can do.
“We’re moving. We’re going this way,” Tom says, using me as a shield as he inches us both closer to the stairs. “Don’t try
to be a hero and do something stupid,” he tells the guard. “You want everyone out alive, just stay right the fuck there,”
he says, and I suddenly feel a new panic surfacing. Maybe he didn’t come for Raffy. Maybe he came to take me with him. Oh,
Jesus. No.
“Please, Tom. You can run right now. Just let me go and nobody will . . .” Before I can finish, I hear sirens howling in the
distance. Helicopters overhead.
“Fuck,” Tom says.
I would be relieved, but if there was a chance, moments ago, that he thought he could get out of here with me or kill Raff
and run, or likely both, now he really has nothing to lose. If he’ll be caught anyway, we’re all fucked.
“Fuck!” he screams again with a guttural sound, spit flying from the sides of his mouth and his face reddening.
Then in a sudden and shocking move, he points the gun at the security guard and shoots.
The guard is hit in the thigh and falls to the ground in an agonizing cry.
I use the brief second of chaos and bite down as hard as I can on Tom’s wrist; his grip around my neck loosens, just barely, as he lets down his guard.
I bite so hard I feel like I break a tendon.
I taste blood. He screams and drops the gun involuntarily, his hand seizing up.
I drop to my knees and scramble to pick it up before he even registers what’s happened. He’s paralyzed in pain for a moment,
and I use that fraction of a second to move, to grab the gun and run. Raff runs, too. He follows me, and we fly down the concrete
stairs two at a time. I know Tom will grab the guard’s gun and be only steps behind us. Tears are streaming down my face as
I pray we can make it to the front doors. The police are coming. I don’t know if we will be shot in the back before we get
that far. The fear and panic has me shaking so violently, and my knees feel so weak that I miss the last step and fall hard
on the polished concrete floor. The gun skids down the empty hall. Everyone has fled. I hear it echo as it ricochets off the
wall and I hear Tom’s footfalls on the steps above us.
Raff pulls me up, and I feel blood seeping from where I must have cracked my chin open. I think about it again—trying to get
outside means running down this long hallway to the doors, and I can almost feel the bullet to my back if we try that. I know
Raff knows it, too.
“This way,” he says, and he pushes open the door to the kitchen and locks it behind us.
It’s just a flimsy doorknob twist lock, but it feels like a moment of safety.
The kitchen is a big, industrial room with stainless-steel countertops and walk-in coolers, pots and pans hanging from racks on the ceiling.
“There’s a delivery door,” he says. “We can get out!” He takes my hand, but before we can run the length of the kitchen to
the side delivery entrance, Tom kicks in the kitchen door and the plywood easily cracks and flings open, the lock broken.
We both instinctively hide. I duck, but Raff doesn’t. He tries to slip inside the door of the pantry, but he never had a chance.
Tom sees him.
“Well, well. Shit. It’s my lucky day,” Tom says. “It’s almost like you’ve gift-wrapped yourself.” I watch him glance behind
him, looking for me or maybe making sure there are no other armed guards around. He closes the broken kitchen door and pushes
a crate of potatoes in front of it with his foot, clearing the space visually. He might think I made it to the delivery door
and out to safety, but he has to find me. He won’t leave here without me; we all know that by now. I’m lying on the floor
behind the washing station, blocked by metal and racks of dishes. I hold perfectly still.
“You can come out or I can enjoy blowing you to bits through the door,” he says, but he won’t do that. He has no idea if I’m
in there, too. Does Raff know that? Does Raff know he should stay inside? Pile shit in front of the door? Wait for police
rescue? At least that’s possible. It’s something. But no. Raff walks out with his hands up.
“Please just leave Sasha alone. Please. You have me now. You win.”
“What a martyr. Where is she?” Tom asks. He doesn’t shoot him right away. He needs him to find out if I’m long gone or still
reachable.
“What do you care? You’re surrounded. You’re going to prison. What does it matter where she is?” Raff says. And this is when I start to move. I have precious little time.
“Prison, I can beat. I think I’ve already demonstrated that. But taking care of you? This may be my only chance,” I hear Tom
say as I crawl on my hands and knees across the floor as soundlessly as I can. I hold a pair of kitchen scissors that were
lying on the bottom of a plastic dish tub on the floor tightly in my fist.
“Please,” Raffy pleads. “Let her go.”
“Shut up! Shut the fuck up. She’s not yours! She’s mine,” Tom screams, and then he cocks the gun and the expression on Raff’s
face falls. A recognition that it’s his last moment on this earth—a look that’s indescribable and heartbreaking. And then
there is a glint in his eye when he looks up, something catching in the corner of his vision. Movement. He sees me standing
up, moving silently behind Tom’s back and holding the handle of the scissors so hard my knuckles feel like they’re bleeding.
Tom must register the change in Raff’s face, because he hesitates and then starts to turn, to look behind him, but it’s too
late.
With a scream so hard and loud my lungs ache, I thrust the blade into the side of Tom’s neck. He doesn’t cry out or scream.
Eerily, he doesn’t make a sound. The gun softly drops from his hand. His eyes bulge and blood starts to pour from the side
of his neck. More blood than I’ve ever seen. And then he collapses, wordlessly, almost gracefully, to the floor and begins
to convulse.
Raff runs to me, pulling me away from the body, taking the weapon. I fall to my knees and hold my head in my hands, shocked
at what I’ve done even though I know I had to do it.
Tom’s body goes still, and Raff just holds me in his arms on the floor, letting me sob.
“It’s okay,” he says, and he keeps repeating it until I can breathe again. The sirens are louder, the front doors open, and
medics and police are shouting.
“You’re okay. I’m here. You’re okay, Sash. It’s over.”
* * * * *