Two men in uniform came in and went straight to the kitchen. Muted voices came from the kitchen, Tim’s among them.
The wall reflected flashes from the kitchen where they were taking pictures. A lot of pictures.
Tim brought me a cup of tea and sat beside me.
I wrapped both hands around the mug.
“You want to talk about it?” He brushed my hair back, his fingers as gentle as a butterfly’s kiss.
“Not really,” I said.
“Just a couple of questions?”
I nodded my head and sipped tea.
“How did he get in?”
“I opened the door.”
“Okay, then what happened?”
“Tim, I am so sorry!” I leaned forward to set the mug on the table. “He said you asked him to pick up your jacket. He said he was taking it up to you, so I let him in. He waited here while I went up to get your coat.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Muse. It’s fine. It’s over.”
I leaned back and sighed.
“You sure you’re okay? You’re kind of pale, babe.”
“I just spent an hour with a madman who had a gun in my face. I watched his finger, Tim! On the trigger. Getting tighter and tighter. It turned white! The knuckle turned white!” I took a deep breath. “No. I am not okay.”
Tim gathered me to his side and tucked my head into his shoulder.
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