Eleanore:
My breath hitches and the air in the room suddenly feels colder. He is joking. He has to be. He must.
My gaze drifts down to my hands.
They are shaking...Fuck.
When I open my mouth to speak, nothing comes out. For a while, silence is the only thing that keeps me company. The others are staring at me and I feel everyone's jugemental looks, waiting for a reaction.
That's right.... Speak Eleanore. Say something. DAMN IT SAY SOMETHING!
Yet all I can do is fix my eyes on the marble floor as if it's somehow its fault that I am in this situation.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I manage to ask, my voice rough and hoarse,
"What is that supposed to mean sir?"
"Please," he says lightly. "No need for formalities, I already told you, call me Chris."
"Answer my fucking question!" I snap, surging to my feet.
The sound of my own voice—sharp, loud, unrestrained—startles me as much as it does everyone else in the room.
As for Chris, He takes a slow breath, his eyes darkening as he lifts a cigarette to his lips. The lighter flicks, the tip glowing briefly before smoke spills from his mouth in a lazy exhale.
My patience is already hanging by a thread, and he knows it. He keeps smoking, dragging the moment out, delaying his answer as long as fucking possible.
Finally, he flicks his cigarette to the ground and crushes it beneath his shoe, my eyes follow his movement, part of me begging him to explain, the other praying for him to not say another word.
Then he looks at me.
Really looks at me.
When he speaks, his voice is barely a whisper.
"Mrs. Everhart...Zane Cross is not dead."
I release a breath I didn't even realize I was holding. My heart drops, my body going rigid all at once. The room tilts, and before I know it, my legs give out.
My knees hit the hard floor with a loud thud, the sound echoing through the room.