61

61
 Delia 
 The creak of the floorboard wasn’t what froze Delia this time.
 It was the knock—sharp, heavy, deliberate. It rattled the doorframe, the sound reverberating through the apartment like a warning.
 Her breath caught. Frank wasn’t supposed to be back yet.
 The knock came again, harder this time. “Frank! I know you’re in there!”
 The voice was male, rough-edged and furious, each word soaked in threat. Delia stiffened. She didn’t recognise it.
 Her pulse thundered in her ears. Whoever he was, he wasn’t someone friendly dropping by for coffee.
 Another thud shook the door. “Open the damn door, or I’ll smash it in!”
 The sound jolted Delia into motion. Panic surged, quick and hot, flooding her limbs. She looked around frantically—no phone nearby, no weapon, nothing. The apartment suddenly felt too open, too exposed.
 Her gaze darted toward the sliding balcony doors. The sheer curtains trembled in the faint breeze from a crack she’d left open earlier. It was her only option.
 She moved fast, careful not to make a sound, clutching her belly protectively as she crossed the living room. Another crash hit the door—louder this time. The frame groaned under the force.
 “Frank!” the man bellowed again, his voice closer now, as if he’d leaned right up to the peephole. “You think you can disappear on me? After what you pulled?”
 Delia’s blood ran cold. She didn’t know what the man meant—but every word sounded like danger.
 She slipped through the narrow gap onto the balcony, her breath shallow, pressing herself against the wall just out of sight. The early morning air was sharp, the wind biting against her skin. From her hiding spot, she could still hear the muffled chaos inside.
 Another bang. A curse. The metallic screech of something hitting the lock.
 Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might echo in the still air.
 “Frank! Last chance!”
 There was no answer. Just the low hum of the city below, the rush of distant traffic. Delia’s trembling hands clutched the balcony railing, her knuckles white.
 And then—
 A single, deafening bang.
 Not the door. Not a fist.
 A gunshot.
 The sound tore through the air, sharp and final. Delia’s entire body went rigid, her breath trapped in her throat. The baby kicked hard against her ribs, reacting to her fear.
 Silence followed—thick, absolute, suffocating.
 Delia didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare breathe.
 All she could think, over and over, was one horrifying question:
 Was Frank dead—or had he just killed someone?
 The echo of the gunshot hung in the air long after the sound itself had died.
 For a few seconds, Delia couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. The noise seemed to have split the world in two—before and after. Before, she’d been anxious, uneasy, uncertain. After, she was frozen in terror.
 Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out everything else. She pressed herself flatter against the cold concrete wall, the chill biting through the thin fabric of her shirt. The city stretched far below, oblivious—cars humming, people moving, life continuing as if her world hadn’t just detonated.
 A muffled scuffle sounded inside. A dragging noise. Heavy breathing.
 Then silence again.
 Delia’s throat burned with the urge to cry out, but instinct clamped her mouth shut. Whoever was in there—it might not be Frank.
 Her trembling hands clutched the railing. Should she run? Climb over to the neighbour’s balcony? But the drop was dizzying, and her balance was already precarious. One wrong move, and she could fall—or worse, lose the baby.
 The thought of her child anchored her. She forced herself to breathe, slow and shallow. Think, Delia. Think.
 Her mind replayed the last few minutes in fragments—the man’s furious shouting, the threats, the crash, the gunshot. Whoever he was, he’d come for Frank. But why? What had Frank done?
 You think you can disappear on me? After what you pulled?
 The words echoed in her mind. Disappear. Pulled something. It sounded like betrayal. Money, maybe. Or something worse.
 The apartment stayed unnervingly quiet. Too quiet.
 Delia edged forward, inch by inch, peering through the thin slit where the balcony door met the frame. From this angle, she could see just a sliver of the living room. The table. The chair. The sunlight spilling in through the blinds.
 Then—movement. A shadow crossing the floor.
 A man. Not Frank.
 He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in dark clothes. His head was shaved, the back of his neck inked with a tattoo she couldn’t quite make out. He moved with a heavy, purposeful gait—searching.
 Delia’s heart leapt into her throat. He wasn’t alone. Another voice—lower, gruffer—murmured something from deeper inside the flat. She couldn’t make out the words, only the tone: irritated, tense.
 They were talking. Arguing.
 And then came a name.
 “Frank’s gone,” the first man hissed. “You said he’d be here.”
 Gone.
 Delia’s breath caught. Gone? Did that mean—alive? Had Frank escaped before they arrived?
 “Check the bedroom,” the second voice barked. “He might’ve left something behind.”
 The sound of footsteps drew closer. They were heading toward the hall—toward the bedroom. The same room where she’d found the folder.
 Panic clawed at her throat. If they found it missing—if they realized someone had been in there—they’d know she existed.
 She crouched lower, pressing herself into the corner of the balcony, trying to make herself small. The air felt razor-thin. Her stomach tightened painfully. The baby kicked again, a desperate flutter. “Shh,” she whispered without thinking, her hand on her belly. “Please, just… shh.”
 The footsteps paused.
 Her heart stopped.
 Had they heard her?
 One of the men muttered something—then a faint scrape, as if furniture was being moved. A door creaked open.
 Seconds stretched into eternity.
 Then—another sound. A sharp metallic click.
 The balcony handle.
 Delia’s blood turned to ice. Slowly, painfully, the door began to shift.
 She backed up until her spine hit the cold railing, her breath trapped in her chest. The gap widened by an inch, two inches—
 And then—
 A phone rang. Loud. Jarring.
 A harsh male voice swore. “Damn it.”
 The footsteps retreated. The door stayed half-open.
 Delia sagged against the wall, trembling. She caught fragments of their conversation—one of them answering the call, cursing, saying something about “orders changed” and “she’s not the priority.”
 And then, mercifully, the sound of the front door opening. Closing.
 Silence returned.
 Delia didn’t move for a long time. Her muscles ached from holding so still, but she was afraid—terrified—that one wrong sound might bring them back.
 When she finally dared to breathe again, the adrenaline began to ebb, leaving her light-headed. Her gaze drifted to the half-open balcony door, the faint smell of gunpowder still clinging to the air.
 Frank was gone.
 The men were gone.
 But the question remained, heavy and unrelenting.
 Had Frank run to protect her… or was he the reason they’d come at all?