By the time I made it to my room, my legs were jelly. My pulse thudded in my ears, drowning out every other sound, but I still kept glancing over my shoulder half-expecting to see him there, half-knowing I wouldn't have time to scream if he was. The latch clicked down with a shaky little snap. The chair screeched across the floor as I shoved it up under the handle, the wood trembling in my grip. Then I just stood there, staring at the door, barely breathing. My fingers tingled from gripping the chair too hard. My whole body felt too small to contain my heartbeat.
His Inner Voice: (low, amused): There it is. The little ritual. Chair under the handle. Pulse in your throat.
I swallowed. "Not listening," I whispered to no one.
His Inner Voice: (silky): You're always listening, Elie.
