The blade is a breath away from slitting my carotid; I can do nothing about it; my hands are tied. The last face I am going to see is not human. I want to look away, but if I turn my head, I’d just be doing the job for him. The only weapon I have is my mouth. The same weapon that landed me in this basement in the first place. Maybe it can get me out.

“I had nothing to do with it, I swear (lie). I was only there for the money (not a lie). I am not working for Emerson.”

My desperate plea ricochets off his stone-cold shield of a face. I try again,

“I know who killed your mom. If you kill me, you will never know the truth.”

The mention of his mother snapped him out of his Hannibal Lecter state. He loosened his grip on the knife. But he was still silent.

“He knew the Feds were onto him. He suspected one of us was a mole, so at night I’d sneak around. I thought you thought If I figured out who the mole was, he’d let me win.”

He stared at me like I was a caged animal in the zoo. The knife was slowly lowering. Here goes nothing,

“I didn’t tell him you were the mole. I stole your file and stole the flash drives because I believed you. I still believe you.”

His cold gaze burned red hot as he raised the knife back up and pushed it just enough to where I couldn’t breathe.

“Everyone lies. It’s all lies.”

I scream in my last chance at life

“I am the other mole. When the FBI cut ties with you, they recruited me. I used to be a PI. That’s beside the point. The plan was for me to go undercover as one of the participants so I could look into Emerson and, well, watch out for you. But, the Feds lie. They lied to me like how they lied to you.

He raised the knife high like he was about to strike. This is not how I am going to die. I hold my breath.

“Don’t believe me? Check my bag, ”

He stood up straight and headed towards my bag. Taking the knife with him.

Hook, line, and sinker baby, I may live to see another day.

He turns around, and whatever intrigue he had a minute ago has disappeared. He’s back to cosplaying Jeffery Dahmer. The guy even walks like a predator; if I couldn’t see him, I wouldn’t know he was there.

In his right hand, he drags my briefcase behind him. I feel my heartbeat get louder and louder, I need to play cool, but he’s still clutching the knife with a death grip in his left fist. He stops walking. I can feel his boney shin stab my knee through my jeans. His breath pours down on my face, and it’s worse than death. Honestly, if he doesn’t slit my throat, his breath might kill me. I am looking down at his worn-out new balances, which, if I got close enough, probably smell worse, is my only reprieve. On the bright side, his face won’t be the last thing I see. At least I found a loophole. From my peripherals, I can see his arm winding up for the kill. My body tightens. Every muscle in my body still thinks there's a chance for me to flee or fight. Then he drives his arm down like Norman Bates. I scream

“Ple-”

He slices the rope around my waist. Halle-freakin-lujah. He drops the knife, and it clangs against the concrete. The sound of victory, but he pulls the manilla envelope out from the briefcase and ferociously throws it on the ground. This isn’t possible.

I’ve seen his file a million times. I know exactly what it looks like. I remember the old fart putting it in this stupid briefcase. I saw him do it with my own eyes. But I am not looking at his file; I am looking at mine.