Riley had been in the basement for almost half-an-hour, and during this time, she waited for Paris to stop looking for her.
So since her legs got tired from crouching, she sat on the concrete and pulled her legs to her chest, staring off into the darkness as she still held the shard of glass tightly in her hand.
She even stopped feeling the pain of it eventually.
But then footsteps receded down the stairs, and she stiffened, heart pounding.
And without even a little bit of looking, Paris came around the boxes she hid behind and sighed, shaking his head.
“Wow, you were very lucky. The moment you ran, my guard reset the security systems and it took a while for it to reboot. Otherwise it would’ve been easier to find you.”
He meant they had security cameras? Great.
“Riley,” Paris said.
She backed herself against the wall, shaking her head to indicate him to not get closer.
“Riley,” he said, stepping further toward her, “don’t panic.”
She pressed herself further to the wall, rose her hand, and pointed the shard of glass menacingly at him.
He only sighed and kneeled before her, clearly not afraid of the silent threat.
She just noticed the cut she left on his cheek.
It clearly wasn’t attended to, and there was blood slipping down his skin like red tears.
“Come out of there,” he said then.
She shook her head.
“What happened?” he asked her. “Was it the car ride? I was trying to protect us.”
She shook her head again, afraid if she spoke, her voice would waver.
“Then…” he said, tipping his head to the side, “what is it?”
“I found her jacket,” Riley told him, making him blink in surprise.
“Who?”
“What do you mean, WHO?” she yelled at him, though he didn’t flinch back. “BELLA’S!”
His eyes darkened as if he realized something and he looked away, sighing. “That’s why. I didn’t think you would get the wrong idea.”
She stared at him worriedly. “But serial killers take keepsakes.”
“I’m not the killer,” he said, annoyed. “Will you let me explain?”
“Did you kill her?” she questioned him.
“No. I was trying to save her.”
Riley drew back in shock.
“I took the jacket to hopefully get DNA from the attacker,” he explained. “But I only found his blood-type.”
“Show me,” she demanded sternly, still keeping the shard at him.
He blinked. “Right now?”
“Yes, right now, you dumbass!”
He rolled his eyes at the name and pulled out his phone while sitting—and while she held him at knifepoint.
“Here,” he said, flashing the phone’s screen to her while she gazed down at it. “The DNA analysis is pretty slow because we got old equipment, and there were some mixups, so this is all I got.”
Her brows drew together. “A-positive?”
He nodded, and swiped to another analysis.
“B-negative?”
“Yeah,” he said, “the B-negative was Bella’s blood type, so the killer’s must be A-positive.”
Her heart pounded in her chest when she realized Paris took Bella’s blood sample at the crime scene.
But when did he find her…? Riley was the one who found Bella’s body, so how did he get a hold of this stuff?
She didn’t even want to ask why Paris had a crime lab.
The answer would probably be consequential.
“Do you know anyone with A-positive?” Paris said, pulling the phone away.
Riley shook her head and gazed up at him with s disgusted look. “I don’t go around, asking for blood-types, Paris.”
He smiled at her sarcastic response and pushed his phone back into his pocket.
So, he must’ve been telling the truth, right? Why else would he have done all these analysis and showed them to her?
He could’ve fabricated them.
But why? How would he know this moment would happen? How would he set all these up in the past and predict this future?
It didn’t matter how it was possible in TV… this was real life.
It wasn’t possible; her suspicions were irrational.
She started to question if his motives were actually to protect. Most of the red flags she had were fabricated because she was afraid of trusting him…
And that he was possessive, but it felt like he became this way with his father—protective over things he liked.
She became that way, too; she was like a mother figure to Claire and Bella, always preventing them from going places because she didn’t want them getting hurt.
But Paris always told her he was going to give her consequences, but he never hit her, never grabbed her tightly enough that her skin burned, and part of her thought the “consequences” was him using a playful method to her her to listen.
To not make irrational decisions.
Because everything his did was thought through—calculated—in a matter of seconds.
But… he was mainly showing white flags or whatever you called them.
He really seemed warm-blooded.
No pun intended due to the fiery feeling he was giving her.
“Paris…” she whispered, “who are you really? As a person?”
He smiled. “If I tell you,” he said softly, “will you come out of there?”
“I’ll think about it,” she responded, not giving in to his loopholes.
He sighed, setting his knees down and sitting criss-cross in front of her.
She still held him at knife-point, but he didn’t really seem bothered by it.
Not even with the still leaking wound.
“All of us here are vigilantes,” he told her, and she held the knife steady despite her body starting to shake. “Yes,” he said, not moving despite the fear weakening her grip on the glass shard, “I know, but we’re good people now.”
“‘Now?’” she echoed.
“When we were ruled by my father,” he continued, “as you know, we would be considered a mafia.”
“What are you now?” she questioned, the shard now shaking.
“Now all we want is to right our wrongs, Riley. To reform.” He sighed. “My dad killed a lot of our families, Riley, and threatened us to work for him or others were gone, too.”
He pulled up his shirt then, making her suck in a breath when she noticed all the scars lining his stomach.
“He purposely cut me here so no one would know the wounds existed,” Paris explained, dropping the fabric back down. “And I hated him for it. I hated him the moment I was born.”
Riley could tell by the fire in his eyes that he was telling the truth. “Why?” she whispered.
“Because he killed my mother,” Paris said coldly, making her stiffen.
“Is that why you killed him…?” Riley said.
He shook his head. “There were other reasons, Riley. Many—many reasons.”
Her eyes reflected him with concern.
“Yes,” he said, “I know this is confusing. Just…” he held out his hand, “just come out of there, and I’ll get Violet and I’ll explain everything.”
“My mom…?” Riley said. “She’s okay, right? Because of the explosion and stuff.”
“She’s fine,” Paris responded softly. “Don’t worry, alright? She got out before we did.”
Riley stared down at her bloody hand then.
“Come on,” Paris said, holding out his palm. “Come out of there.”
“Will you inject me again?” she asked him suspiciously.
He shook his head. “No, I won’t.”
“Promise?” she stated.
He held out his pinky then, making her look down at it in confusion. “Pinky promise,” he told her.
She hesitantly reached out to him, watching him carefully before locking their pinkies together, then shaking hands like goofy adults, Riley dropping the glass shard when she found no use in it anymore.
He let go then and stood, waiting for her patiently as she got out from the corner and stood with him, Paris pressing his hand to her head. “Oh, watch out. There’s a shelf there.” And he kept his hand to her head as she ducked and walked out from the space. “There you go,” he said, smiling gently, “don’t want you to hit your head.”
She only stared at him, trying to recognize malice or anger in his expression.
There was none; it was all play and gentleness.
He caught her elbow that was stained with blood from her hand. “Come on, Riley,” he said, “let’s go upstairs, okay?”
She nodded, letting him hold her arm, and they ran up the steps seconds later.
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