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Darkness washed over her again.
She thought she heard voices, not in her head but around her.
Sam was cussing at someone. “Fix it!” she demanded. “He’s a fucking nutcase,” she cried out. “Just do it. Hurry. If she dies we’ll all die . . .”
“He’ll pop my little head like a grape,” Zoey whispered. “Like Johnny. Just like Johnny.” She shuddered at the image and grew colder.
So cold. So icy. She had to tell Sam what she had done. She had to.
“I’m so sorry, Momma,” Zoey whispered, knowing her mother wasn’t there. So glad her momma couldn’t see her with so much blood on her.
Someone gripped her hand, holding it firmly as blankets were quickly pulled over her.
I’m here.
We’ll get you warm, little one.
. . . heated blankets. Electric blankets. Electric blankets would be so warm, wouldn’t they? Wrapped around you like the warmest skin. Holding you close . . .
That voice. She remembered that voice.
At a party. Dancing with him. He’d been just a little bit drunk that night. He’d strolled to her. Striding across the large room where everyone danced, his eyes on her, connecting with hers, heavy lidded, his gaze dark and hungry.
He’d held his hand out and though she’d laughed at him, she’d still accepted the silent demand to dance. To step into his arms. His warmth.
“Dance with me . . .” she sighed. “Hold me.”
All my warmth in the blankets around you. Feel it, little one. Feel how warm I’ll keep you.
Delicious warmth surrounded her, a cocoon of gentle heat sinking into her skin as the warmth of his hand wrapped around hers, easing her, easing the pain just a little bit.
He was her fantasy.
After that night, his image followed her into dreams and into masturbation. And she’d never seen him again.
She would be gone now if he came back. Taken away and locked up for killing Harley.
“I’m so sorry . . .” She had to force the words past her lips.
“Why? Why are you sorry, little one?” Her eyelid was lifted, light piercing her skull like a sword and causing her stomach to pitch and churn as she cried out with the pain.
The next eyelid was lifted, the lancing white light stabbing into her brain again. She was too weak to fight. She couldn’t fight anymore.
“Please don’t hurt me,” she whimpered, the blissful darkness finally returning. “Don’t hurt me more.”
“God. Zoey, honey, tell me what happened? Who hurt you, Zoey?” he demanded. “Tell me who hurt you.”
Tears slipped from her closed eyes, the horror of the nightmare images racing across her brain filling her with such a desperate, overwhelming need to hide.
“Where’s Sam?” She had to tell Sam.
“I’m here, Zoey.” Soft, gentle, and so sad. Sam was always so sad.
“Harley.” She shuddered in fear. “I killed Harley, Sam. I killed him. I have to tell you. I killed Harley.” She kept her eyes closed; she couldn’t bear to see the condemnation in Sam’s eyes. “I killed Harley, Sam . . .” Her breathing hitched with a cry. “I’m so sorry I killed him. I’m so sorry, but he was hurting me so bad . . .” Panic began welling inside her, racing through her veins, tearing through her mind. “He was hurting me so bad. . . . Please don’t let Natches kill me. Don’t let him . . .”
Detonations of pain ruptured her mind, sending waves of deep, black nothingness to surround her once again.
Just nothingness where she could hide.
