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Non! Get out! Get out now! Move!
The man outside shifted his attention to the very window she peered out of. He threw down his cigarette and began to walk across the street.
“I need to warn Yolanda—” she began.
He won’t even notice anyone else! He wants no one but you! Get out of there!
Something inside her made her listen—she had saved her father’s life this way—and she whipped into action, bounding across the little room to the chair where she had piled her clothes.
Get out now!
She gathered up her sweater and pants, stepped into her boots and pulled on her own long black coat over the Marc Anthony T-shirt. Her purse…she couldn’t remember where it was. In the darkened bedroom? In the bathroom?
She couldn’t leave without it. Her cell phone was in it. Her money, her house key—
—and then she felt the wet velvet sensation wash over her, the same as in her bathroom—was it four nights ago? She stood stock-still, feeling like a prisoner eluding the searchlight of a prison guard tower. Her heart was thudding so hard she felt dizzy again.
The sensation passed.
Where are you? the voice demanded. Are you leaving?
“Oui,” she replied, shocking herself. She was speaking in French again.
Ah, c’est bon, he replied, and rattled off a barrage of French.
She shook her head, not understanding anything more, mincing backwards out of the bedroom.
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