CHAPTER 146 - THE WARNING SHOT

CHAPTER 146 - THE WARNING SHOT
Bella's POV

I had been tired in a way that felt like old paper. Thin, folded, soft at the edges. The lab lights had burned in my eyes all day. I left with my bag heavier than it should have been and the smell of solvent sticking to my shirt.

My car was where I always left it. Same spot. Same dent on the bumper from last winter. The city sounded like someone tapping a spoon against a glass. Tires, far voices, a dog barking somewhere that made me think of home.

I walked faster. My heels clicked. I told myself that I was being silly. People followed other people all the time. I had walked past men in suits who glanced and kept going. I had jumped at shadows for months.

A man stepped out from behind a parked van. He looked ordinary until he did not. He had a camera case under his arm. He had a face that tried not to be looked at. He smiled at me like he should not have smiled at me.

"Can I help you?" I said. My voice was small. I did not sound like the woman who spoke in meetings. I sounded like a kid asking if the cookie jar was real.

The man shrugged. "Just taking pictures," he said.

"Of what?" I asked.

He spread his hands. "The street. People. The light."

"Not my car?"

He pretended to squint at my car, like it was nothing. "No. I was shooting over there."

He pointed past my car toward the lot across the street and he lied. I knew it the way a bruise knows when a hand hit it. The way I knew pigment under varnish.

I walked on. I tried not to make the small noises my body wanted to make. My hand found the key. The metal was cool. I clicked the remote once and the lights blinked. From the corner of my eye I saw him lift the camera, a long black shape.

The lens was huge. It ate the light. It was a telescope that a small bird could not escape from.

I stopped. "Hey," I said. "What are you doing with that?"

He hesitated. He said, "Street photography. Leave me alone."

"Why are you pointing it at my car?"

He looked away. For a second he looked human. For a second he looked like a man trying not to be seen. "It is not aimed at your car."

I stepped closer. My stomach did that old drum thing. "You are lying."

"Look, lady," he said. His voice was no nicer now. "This is public. I can shoot where I want."

"Not like that," I said. "Put the camera down."

He laughed, too quick, and it sounded thin. "You are upsetting the shot."

"Put it down," I said. "Now."

He kept the camera up. He twisted the focus ring. Through the viewfinder the world shrank into a circle. I wanted to tear it out. I wanted the world to be bigger again.

My hand shook. My phone was in my hand before I thought to move. My thumb tapped a name. I wanted to say something that was not exactly true.

"Alex," I said into the phone. My voice trembled. "There is a man. He has a big lens. He is taking pictures of my car."

There was silence on the line. Then his voice, low, close. "Where are you?"

"Outside the building," I said. "Near the lot. He is across the street. I can see the glass on the lens. It is huge."

"Stay put," he said. That sound in his voice was paper folding. Quiet before it snapped. "Do not make a scene."

"I am not making a scene," I said. I did not know if I meant it.

The man with the camera heard my voice. He looked up. For the first time he met my eyes through the glass. He smiled like he had been told to smile into a camera. It made my skin crawl.

"Who is Alex?" the man said, loud enough that the sound came like a splash into my ear.

"None of your business," I said. The words came faster than my fear. They sounded sharp and brave and brittle.

He clicked the shutter once. The sound was small and fatal. A single seed falling. Click.

"Stop," I said.

He did not stop. He folded into his work like a man folding a map. He aimed again. He whispered something into a mic on his ear. A tiny light blinked on the side of the lens.

My phone warmed against my cheek. Alex was breathing. "I am on my way," he said. "Where exactly are you?"

"I am by the far lamppost," I said. "Near the delivery door."

"Do not get in your car," he said. He did not say please. He did not sound like a man asking questions. He sounded like a man who was already making plans.

"I am not going to get in my car," I said. I was telling myself the truth.

The man with the camera stood up as if he had finished a chapter. He started to walk toward the lot where my car sat. He kept the camera raised like a shield.

"Who are you?" I yelled. My voice tore at the night. It sounded too loud. It sounded right.

He paused. He looked me in the face. "Journalist," he said. "Freelance."

"Then show me your card," I said. My hands were too steady to be honest. "Show me a card or I call the police."

He blinked. He reached into his pocket and brought out a small rectangle of paper. It was not a business card. It was folded. He kept the camera up.

My stomach hit the floor. My mouth tasted like metal. The lamppost light made a halo around the lens and I could see the glass reflect my face. Small. Afraid. Real.

"Alex," I said, and then I could not stop the words. "Please."

He answered before I could hang up. "Tell me exactly where you are," he said. His car door sounded. Engines turning. Footsteps that were too many. My phone blurred in my hand.

"By the lamppost," I said. "He is walking toward my car. He is taking pictures. He just clicked."

A car horn far away beeped. The camera man raised his head. He smiled. He aimed at me again.

I pressed the phone to my ear and I heard Alex say one sentence that felt like a hand around my throat. "Stay where you are."

The man lifted the lens and focused on me.

Click.