“I’m not here for a long time, “she pressed the number three, “I’m here to see how long it takes you to snap and murder me.” Tilda straightened her blouse.
The elevator shut. The humming of engineering began its work upward.
Her blonde hair was loose on her shoulders. The cherry colored lipstick played right in to her dead pan glare forward at their washed-out reflections. Beckett was as still as a statue. Both arms were pressed behind his back.
“I don’t make unnecessary kills.” His deep voice rang. “Get in the way of my business… now that’s another story.”
She glanced right, “People like you don’t understand that there are penalties to their actions.” There was a brief silence, before someone stepped on, carrying a black brief case.
Tilda noticed her fingers squeeze then relax on the handle. She pressed her presumed floor, then flashed an awkward smile at the two of them.
As the doors opened on the third floor, Tilda stepped out coolly, with Beckett on her far right, walking a pace behind her. The scent of nicotine was on his shoulder. It reminded her of her father. Her dead father.
They’d go sailing together. His arm secured around her bony, freckled shoulder. Tilda loved that white bathing suit, the one with blue stars and pink bottoms. Despite it barely staying on her tiny frame, her father always pulled her sleeve up, whenever it came crawling down.
The salt water sprayed on her innocent laugh. The seagulls squealed.
“Stay out of what you need to,” she heard this in her father’s voice, then noticed Beckett directly in front of her. “My family doesn’t feel empathy for revenge cases,”
Tilda smirked, “This isn’t a revenge case. This is justice.”