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I scramble to my feet, but my legs are cooked and the sidewalk is slick with half-melted slush. I don’t even make it upright before they’re on me. Now, it’s my turn to be overwhelmed by the prying masses.
“Ms. Everett! Ms. Everett, can you confirm your relationship with Lukas Lazarev?”
“Did you know about Elena Lazareva’s murder? Are you helping him hide it?”
“How long have you been sleeping with a suspected killer?”
Microphones thrust toward my face from every angle and boom mics swing overhead like they’re trying to chop my head off. Someone’s camera flash goes off point-blank and I flinch, throwing up my arm to shield my eyes.
I try to stutter out, “I—please, I just need to?—”
But they’re relentless. More questions keep pouring in, each louder than the last.
“Were you aware of the investigation when you attended the charity gala?”
“Did Lazarev ever discuss killing his wife with you?”
“Ms. Everett, some sources say you were his assistant. Was this a workplace affair?”
I try to push through, but they’re packed so tightly around me that I can hardly breathe. Every time I move left, someone blocks me. Every time I move right, another body pops up to cut off my escape route. Their questions overlap into cacophony, a wall of noise that makes my skull throb. I feel like they’re inside my head, screaming at me.
“Please,” I gasp. “Please let me through!”
Nobody listens. Why would they? I’m not a person to them. I’mcontent. I’mclicks. I’m the juicy sidebar to the main tragedy, the naive young thing who got tangled up with the monster.
I can’t help but wonder:Is that what I am to Jillian, too?
A woman with aggressively highlighted hair shoves a recorder under my chin. “Did you love him? Do you still love him?”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“No comment always means yes,” someone mutters, and a ripple of dark laughter passes through the crowd.
I shove blindly forward, not caring anymore who I knock into or if I hurt them on the way. My shoulder connects with something solid and I hear a curse, but I don’t stop. I can’t—if I stop, they’ll devour me.
They keep crying out.
“Ms. Everett, do you think he killed her?”
“Did he ever hurt you?”
“Are you afraid for your life?”
Hands paw at my jacket. Someone’s fingers close around my elbow and I wrench free with a strangled cry, stumbling, nearlyfalling again. The flashes keep popping, blinding me, and I realize with dawning horror that there’s nowhere to go. They’ve surrounded me completely.
Until a black car screeches to the curb.
The crowd scatters like cockroaches, cursing up a storm, but whoever is driving—hidden behind some darkly tinted windows—clearly doesn’t give a fuck if they break a toe or two.
It grinds to a stop and the passenger door flies open. A familiar face appears in the gap.
“Get in,” Kir orders. “Now.”
I freeze. Am I awake? Is this really happening? Do I even have a choice here? I’m spazzing out, circuits fried by the longest day of my entire life.
But now that they’ve recovered from the surprise appearance and they realize who’s in the car, the press has found their second wind. They close in around me, shrieking questions that blur into each other. Murder and conspiracy and hidden bodies and poison and torrid, scandalous sex.
Kir’s hand darts out through the open door and closes around my wrist. His grip is iron, but not cruel. His gray eyes are unblinking.
