A Waltz With Wolves (Book II in The Harrison Inc. Series) | ✓

Chapter Forty-Seven: A Stranger I Knew

**

My hands have become numb from banging on the window.

The blood has dried on the glass from how long we've been driving - me and this mysterious driver who refuses to answer any of my questions. My tears have dried, too - perhaps I have none left. All I can do is stare forward as we drive. To where? I don't know.

My mind caves in on itself, the sound of the gunshots still ringing in my ear as if I'm still at the mansion hearing them for the first time. If I had just run a little faster, I could have seen who it was; who the victim was. It came from the library—what if it was Alejandro? Sebastian? Bile rises in my throat. The tears I thought were gone are coming back and blurring my vision.

I pull out my phone—dead. Fuck, I should have charged it completely before I left my apartment. How could I be so fucking stupid?

I throw my purse across the seat and place my hands on my lap, despite the red hue on my skin teasing me. I still can't stop shaking.

"Where are you taking me?" I ask again as if the answer is going to be any different from the last few answers: silence.

"Please remain calm," the driver answers. His accent isn't Colombian. He must be a friend of Claude's.

My nostrils flare at the word "calm." As if I can remain calm not knowing who was hurt at the party; whose blood was on Claude's hands, and now mine?

Impulsively, I bang my hands against the back of the headrest, startling the driver.

"I don't give a fuck about staying calm right now!" I hiss at him. "Tell me where the fuck you're taking me!"

His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, then focus back on the road. I feel invisible. Powerless.

After tiring protest, the driver finally stops in front of a familiar complex—my apartment building. I stare out of the window at it as if it's unfamiliar to me. He exits the car, opens my door and waits for me to get out. Reluctantly, I put one foot in front of the other. He looks at me, the driver. He's almost unfazed by the blood staining my dress. Blood that doesn't belong to me.

"I was advised by Mr. Wilhelm-Vaughan that in case of a situation such as this one, we were to bring you back to your apartment and stand guard for precautionary reasons," the driver explains.

"Precautionary reasons," I repeat quietly, my eyes dry and swollen. Claude was right—I remember the talk Claude and I had in Salvador's kitchen before the party. He warned me about attending, claiming it wasn't safe. Of course, I didn't listen. Look where that got me?

Seconds later, a second SUV pulls up behind the car. Four men exit the vehicle, their attire casual but dark. One of them approaches me, trying to smile to ease the tension I'm drowning in. He's older, built like a large wall—strong, hardy, incapable of breaking down. His head is bald and shiny, and I wonder why this feature is something I focus on so heavily.

"Ms. King," he says, "My name is Isaac Ronan, I work for the private security detail under Harrison Incorporated. Perhaps we should speak inside."

Isaac then gestures for us to go inside my apartment complex as if he owns it. I stare at him silently, not interrogatively, but out of speechlessness. The lack to exert an emotion.

"You expect me to just let you inside my apartment?" I finally ask him, not rhetorically; I want an answer. My tone is malicious, and Isaac catches on quickly.

"I understand this is a very stressful and scary situation for you," he says, lowering his hand. "But I've been advised explicitly to keep you safe in case of a scenario such as the one we're in; keep you safe and protected at all costs. So, it would make my job a lot easier if we were to speak inside, where I can explain the situation."