Before
Frankie
It’s not the Senator.
It takes me a minute to process the face. I blink a few times. Still, it makes no sense. He makes no sense. Not here.
“Brooks?”
I do not feel relieved, though. Not at all. I feel a flash of hot, then cold. This is very bad. Brooks. Standing here in my apartment, looking exhausted and disheveled. As if maybe he made his way to my apartment from D.C. on foot. Like he hasn’t slept in days. Weeks.
“What are you doing here, Brooks?” I make a point of gesticulating with the paint scraper. Trying to draw his attention to the fact that I’m armed, with a maybe sharpish weapon. My body feels like it’s got an electric current running through it. Paint knife or not, I’m in serious, serious danger.
Brooks steps closer. “I’m here because we can help each other, Frankie. I just need you to hear me out.”
Brooks is between me and the door. If I try to run, he could grab me. And he seems unconcerned about the scraper—if he’s even noticed. He killed Van. Or at least Richard thinks it’s possible.
I need to stay calm. Try to talk my way to safety.
“Okay, Brooks. I’ll hear you out. But outside. This is making me uncomfortable.”
A flicker of something hateful moves across his face. “Oh, come on, Frankie. You must be used to that by now.”