Even though I have plenty of proof that what’s happening is real, my first thought is: “He’s just messing with me.” Shock, I guess. Refusal to believe something terrible is true. Whatever it is, it doesn’t last long. “Turn around,” he says. His voice is low and menacing. “Devlin, please,” I stammer. “Turn around,” he repeats. Fury is rising in his face. I obey. “Walk to the cash,” he says. I move forward as slowly as I can. Trying to think. Trying to buy time. There’s a chubby woman at the cash — probably in her fifties. She looks up, sees me. It registers on her face. She knows at once that something is wrong. “Yes?” she says. She’s trying to sound normal. Devlin moves suddenly. He presses up against me and circles my waist with his left arm. His right hand moves up, bringing the blade of the knife to my throat. “Give me the money in the cash,” he tells her, “unless you want to see a lot of blood.” Her hand goes to her mouth and her eyes widen, but she doesn’t make a sound.
