Morning arrived like a headache—persistent, dull, and impossible to ignore.
Rhoda stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at the woman looking back. She looked the same, and that felt like the biggest lie of all. She applied her makeup with clinical precision, using a little extra concealer to hide the dark circles under her eyes. She needed to look like a woman who worried about her mortgage, not a woman who had spent the night watching a man clean a handgun.
She chose a cream-colored blouse and charcoal slacks. Reliable. Professional. Invisible.
"You're sure about this?" Evan asked. He was leaning against the doorframe, a mug of coffee in his hand. He hadn't slept well; she could see it in the way his shoulders sat, braced for an impact that hadn't come yet.
"Yes," Rhoda said, her voice steadier than her hands. "I'm well rested and the bank has cameras, Evan. It's the safest place for me to be right now."
Evan didn't look convinced. "Cameras only record what happens. They don't stop it." He set his mug down and handed her a burner phone. "Keep it on vibrate. In your pocket. Not your bag."
The drive to the city was a blur of gray asphalt and morning mist. Evan dropped her two blocks away, his eyes scanning the sidewalk like a predator.
"See you at five," she said.
"I'll be waiting," he replied. It wasn't a comfort; it was a reminder of the stakes.
The bank smelled of stale coffee and industrial carpet cleaner. As the heavy glass doors hissed shut behind her, Rhoda felt a momentary sense of relief. As she walked to her station, her skin crawled. Every "Good morning, Rhoda" from her coworkers felt like a test. Every sympathetic look from a regular customer felt like an accusation.
"Rhoda! Oh, sweetie, we were so worried!" Sarah, rushed over and pulled her into a stifling hug. "Mr. Henderson said you had a delayed shock reaction. Are you really okay to be here?"
"I'm fine, Sarah," Rhoda lied, her voice steady. "I just needed a day in the dark. I think... I think I just want things to get back to normal." The routine was a shield. She logged into her terminal, the familiar clack of the keys grounding her.
The morning was crawl of mundane transactions. She cashed checks for local business owners, helped an elderly woman navigate a wire transfer, and smiled until her face ached. But every time the door chimed, her heart stuttered. Every man in a tan jacket was a threat; every car idling at the drive-thru was a getaway vehicle.
By noon, the illusion was starting to fray. She found herself staring at the security guard, wondering if he was competent or just a man in a polyester uniform. She jumped when a customer slammed a heavy bag of coins onto the counter.
"Are you okay, dear?" the customer asked, peering through the plexiglass.
"Just a bit of a head cold," Rhoda said, her pulse drumming in her ears.
Around 2:00 PM, Mr. Henderson, stepped out of his office. He was a man who lived for spreadsheets and pressed collars. He paused by Rhoda's station, frowning slightly.
"Rhoda, your drawer was short five dollars on Friday. Everything alright?"
It was such a small, human thing to be accused of that Rhoda almost laughed. "I'll double-check my tallies, Mr. Henderson. I'm sure it's just a clerical error."
"See that it is. We can't have 'clerical errors' becoming a habit."
He walked away, and for a second, Rhoda felt a wave of genuine anger. He was worried about five dollars while her world was held together by duct tape and Evan's paranoia.
By 5:00 PM, Rhoda's nerves were frayed to a thin, vibrating wire. She had spent eight hours smiling through a mask, her skin crawling every time a customer lingered too long or a manager walked past. The normal world felt like a poorly fitted costume, and all she wanted was the heavy, dangerous scent of Evan and the locked door of their sanctuary.
She was the first one out when the bells chimed for closing. She walked with a steady, practiced pace toward the corner where Evan had promised to be.
Her heart leaped when she saw the black sedan idling at the curb. She almost smiled from the rush of emotions down her spine. She didn't hesitate. She pulled the handle and slid into the leather passenger seat, a sigh of relief already escaping her lips.
"I thought this day would never—"
The words died in her throat.
The scent hit her first. It wasn't the clean, sharp aroma of expensive perfume and rain. It was the smell of stale cigarettes, gun oil, and an underlying musk of sweat.
Before she could even turn her head, the car screeched away from the curb, the tires howling against the pavement. The door locks clicked with a synchronized, mechanical finality.
"Easy now, sweetheart," a gravelly voice chuckled. "You look like you've seen a ghost. But I'm a lot more solid than Mercer, aren't I?"
Rhoda spun her head toward the driver's seat. It wasn't Evan.