He takes a few slow steps toward one of two velvet red chairs that are positioned against the wall next to the elevator. His curved posture and shaky stance give away that he isn’t a day less than eighty years old. Despite his somewhat morbid opening conversation, he can’t be that dangerous.
I smile, but I can’t tell if I should be afraid or entertained. “My grandfather used to say the placement of a birthmark was the story of how a person lost the battle in their past life.
My hand instinctively goes up to my neck, and I touch the dime-sized mark just below my ear. He presses the up button on the elevator and faces me. My eyes widen, and I slowly turn toward the elderly gentleman standing at my side. “Somebody stabbed you in the neck, young lady.”
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