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It’d been like catching one of my own thoughts as it whispered past.
Utterly impossible.
Did I have concussion? In a quiet alcove at the front of an office building, I felt through my hair for blood but found nothing. A blast could bruise your brain without leaving wounds. It could be that.
Again, I hurried onward, aiming for a bus stop a half-mile away. I shouldn’t sleep until I was sure I was okay. With a concussion, you mustn’t sleep because you might not wake up.
When I climbed the steps to the bus interior, my legs trembled. So tired.
The rocking of the bus and roar of the motor lulled me, and I let my eyelids slide shut as I relaxed into the softness of the upholstery.
All that kept me awake was the constant need to scratch my ankle as if I could still feel the dead woman’s touch. I remembered the slow uncurling of the fingers that had glued my feet to the spot, the clammy touch that came with an inexplicable thought—the knife, lying beside the dead woman was mine. Not the woman’s. Mine.
It was essential I possess it.
Maybe what I’d done to the man was wrong, but I was one hundred percent certain the knife wasn’t his.
Fuck.I remembered my nametag—he’d know who I was for sure.
The ding of the bell, as the bus hissed and shuddered to a halt, seemed to punctuate my unease as I stepped out onto the pavement.
So tired, all I wanted was home—my little apartment set way too close to the Houston airport. Three stories up, no view, but it was my safety.
As I placed my keys on the kitchen counter, I brushed away some tears then ambled through into the living room. I felt so...shaky.
Framed by the door ahead, the glimpse of bed beckoned like never before at whatever it was AM. Ten?
The bus had been when? My phone would tell me but it was in the bag slung over my shoulder, and I couldn’t be bothered looking. Blinking, I realized the knife was in my pocket. I’d taken the weapon from the bag at some point and barely recalled doing it. The damn thing was persistent in wanting to be near me, as if alive, as if it wanted comfort.
It wasn’t alive, just ancient and keyed to me, to who I was, or almost was.
“Oh god.” Talking mysterious nonsense to myself? “If this isn’t from that bomb doing things to my brain, I’m in trouble.”
I wiped more tears with the back of my hand. I usually felt better in my space, but...limbs feeling heavy, I reached into my bag. I only had one number on my favorites.
“Chester?”
As if he’d been waiting, he answered on the first ring. Oh god, it was probably all over the news, I hoped I’d stayed clear of the cameras.
“Zara? You okay?”
The sob escaped me.
“I’m right here on the line with you. Talk to me.”
I opened my mouth then closed it again.
“Talk to me,” he urged quietly.
I’d phoned him. An anchor, when I was all at sea.
“There was a bomb. And a postcard.”
“A postcard? Fromhim?”
“Yeah. From him.”
Chester knew. We’d grown up in the same town. Same school, but back then we’d never crossed paths. It was only after I left—I’d tried to outrun my past, but Chester somehow stuck. He knew my story and accepted me for who I was. My oldest friend. No, confidant. I wouldn’t allow us to quite be friends, and he wanted more.
