In 1980's New York, Barbara Fritz is the "meek and mild" little librarian assistant that nobody thinks twice about. Shy, soft-spoken, and ridiculously self-critical, she doesn't turn any heads. Not until she brutally kills her own father in cold blo...
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Friday evening. 10:22 PM.
"Let me go!"
"Barbara stop!"
...
Ever since I pulled that trigger, my head was in a fog. I could have been waking up from a violent dream and would have been none the wiser.
Was any of it real?
Noise pounded on my ears, but the turbulent sounds couldn't get through. Their meaning was lost.
I saw a blurry room and distorted objects, and a person. But I couldn't connect with them. I was completely out of touch.
Still, there was danger, and I sensed every inch of him.
A flurry of hands, elbows and arms was blocking my view—most of which were mine. I had a vague picture of his face etched in my mind since we'd met, but details were eluding me. All I knew was, we were fighting.
The man pushed me against the wall and bound my wrists in his grizzly clutches. Those dark, mysterious emeralds covered me from head to toe. With eyes like wolves, I was his prey. They stalked me, examined me, and calculated me. I felt it in my bones: If he could've devoured me right then, I would have been his next meal.
Yet his hands weren't ravaging. They were cautiously paring back my attacks, absorbing them like a sponge.
"Barbara, please! I need you to calm down!" His plea was rushed and desperate. I was out of control.
"Or what?!" I spat, "you're gonna hurt me?! Do it!"
"No, I'm not!"
We toiled with each other's grasp, back and forth in an unpleasant dance. One swift movement after another, and my hand was loose! I didn't hesitate to attack. Latching onto him around the neck, my nails dug deep into his flesh, until the blood began to flow.
—BANG—
Echoes of gunfire called back to me. And now I realized, this wasn't the only blood I'd seen tonight.
I'd shot him... and that bastard was dead. I actually went through with it and ended both of our lives. My name would soon cover the headlines for murdering the one man who should have mattered most to me. There was no coming back from that.
I'd killed my own father!
While I wrestled with this unnerving truth, the stranger tightened his grip around me and spread my arms out. A pained growl was squirming between his teeth. I couldn't move.
But then I began to remember him, and how we'd met. It was flooding back to me as his face cemented in my mind.
... He was there too. He saw it all.
The moment I carried out my murderous intent, this stranger appeared from behind, saying my name. He was holding a white handkerchief and wearing a suit; he looked like someone important—or one of my father's associates. And they weren't the nicest people. I'd had my share of experiences with them....
