I wasn't sure what to do, and I wasn't sure what to say. Come to think of it, I wasn't quite sure of anything in this instant...not even close. Meg was breathing heavily into my ear and I could hear the slow scrape of tear drops now slipping down her perfectly olive cheeks.
"We need to leave" was all I could muster.
I felt her hair brush up and down against my shoulder in the motion of a nod, and we slowly crept towards the balcony. The noise from downstairs had ceased and I naturally assumed the killer to have fled, unless he decided to stick around for a post-mortem cup of tea; slightly unlikely.
I reached the glass door first, carefully unhinged the insignificant lock from its placement and started to slide open the door. My movements were calculated, slow and full of an unbearable tension like the slightest string on a guitar pulled to its very tightest point, just before the inevitable snap right into the tuner's exposed eyeball. But I know that breaking wasn't allowed right now, not with Meg holding it together so evenly at my elbow. Her teardrops had ceased to fall (or I had ceased to hear them) and she was breathing steadily again, somehow displacing the events of downstairs from her mind and focusing on what we had to do.
The door slid open with ease and I glanced out and down into the dark night, dreading the possible sight of endless lengths of red hair scattered all over on the streets below, like one might imagine the aftermath of a cock-fight to look like; not that I thought she put up a fight. And anyways, I told myself, it wouldn't make sense for hair to be outside when the noise clearly came from the room itself.
I stopped to shudder again at the thought, but I was wasting time. Time that we needed desperately.