The Bodyguard

Conversations

Emilia can't help the racing of her heart as she stands outside of his office, clasping her slightly trembling hands behind her back. She can feel the gentle drip of water as it chased down her hair and settled on her shaking thumbs, eyes glued to the slight bulge of a gun under the man's shirt before her.

She had never really focused on something like that before, it had always been a second thought that never bothered her. But, she supposed as one door was opened and the guard gestured her inside, things changed, and quickly. 

In an attempt to act normally, she placed a small scowl on her face trying very hard not to bite her bottom lip to hold it steady. She swore every breath, every beat of her heart, every shuffle of her feet was a dead giveaway of what had happened earlier today as every possible scenario went sprinting through her head of what this man could want from her now.

"Emilia, good, I heard there was an unfortunate incident earlier today, care to tell me about it?" Mr. Delmont asks, folding his fingers across a large spread of papers, purposely covering their contents with his shadow as she feels her breath catch tightly in her throat.

But how much did he know? Did he know what Alexander had told her? Or was it only the results of the cafe fight that led to these accusations? Either way, she decided in that moment to play coy with the idea and keep how much she knew to herself.

"Not particularly."  She said, forcing her voice to be steady and untrembling with the terror she feels that he might find out, folding her arms across her own chest to hide her sweating palms.

However, the dangerous look he gives her is enough to keep her silent, keep her from the usual anger that broiled in her chest at the sight of them, and hold fear tightly in her heart. His eyes hold an unfeeling hatred towards her, held at bay only by an image he is forced to protect. After all, it would not bode well for a man to suddenly lose his brand new stepdaughter.

"Well, I heard some. . . interesting rumors from Mr. Knyte, could you perhaps confirm his report?" He asks, hands clenched in fists so tight that his knuckles burn white as the paper beneath them. She had the feeling that he was struggling not to take hold of the gun protruding from his jacket. How many has he murdered with it she wonders, her mind trailing to what if she is the next one it will take.

"I suppose I can do that." She grumbles, only holding herself back from making a run for it by knowing she could hardly even make it out the door behind her before a bullet would be buried in her brain. Using her attitude and the pain of digging nails into palms to hold the flight instinct at bay.

"To begin with, I do believe that Mr. Knyte took you out for lunch at a rather local business, is that correct?" He asks, slowly rising to his feet but keeping his eyes cast downwards on the closed fists.

"It is." Emilia states in return, frustrated with his attempts to draw anything out of her.

"And once there, he says that you were enjoying lunch when two men came in, could you describe them to me? He was a little hazy on the details." Mr. Delmont clarifies, walking slowly around the desk to face her more directly. Using that imposing height to terrify her even more.

"One looked something like a kind of gorilla with dark, greasy hair, the other. . . the other looked young, college age with a green bowler hat." She murmurs, memories flashing behind her eyes. The image of them just beyond that glass and the moment she had turned to face them, both images slightly blurry and for whatever reason she couldn't seem to remember their faces clearly. They seemed generic in her mind, the image of a gun coming between her and their features in an instant.

"And what happened after they came inside?" He asks, walking towards wall to stare at one of the paintings hanging there. 

It was a simple painting, just a contemporary pale grey with a red brush stroke circle in the middle. But in that instant, all she can see is the hole in that man's head. The red, bloody hole torn through a skull that lay inches from her own.