They watched Cole. He hated audiences, despised being the center of attention. But there he sat, an exhibition for others to behold. Their eyes fixed on him. It made his skin squirm, like cockroaches skittering across his body.
Cole sank back into the headrest. He squeezed his eyelids tight, but the gaze of twenty-six eyes still bore through him. He recited the prayer his mother said to him every night at bedtime.
Thirteen people stared at him, three of whom he knew. All of them hated Cole, wanted him dead.
Their wish would soon be realized. The cocktail of poisons flowed through Cole’s veins. He stared back at his audience. His life faded, his vision grayed. The last thing he saw was their eyes.