ONE
JENNA
“What doyou mean she isn’t breathing?”
I frown at the disruption to my dreamworld, refusing to open my eyes after I finally found the ability to sleep in this fucking hellhole.
“I mean, there’s no goddamn air going in or out of her lungs, dumbass.”
I don’t blame Nandi for snapping at Kathy. The initial statement was pretty black-and-white. But then again, things get rather topsy-turvy when you’ve been stuck in the same damp room with the same group of traumatized women for days.
Something shifts against where I lie on my side on the unforgiving concrete, pressing against my mid-section. “Are you sure?” Kathy hisses under her breath. “Maybe she’s a shallow breather?” Guessing the weight is her leg, given her voice sounds as though she kneels over top of me.
“Look at her fucking lips,” Nandi growls through undoubtedly gritted teeth. “Do they look alive to you?”
Fuck it all.I’m awake now. Might as well see what the commotion is about. There are eight women down here—including me—and at least two are addicts forced into a rapiddetox. Whoever they argue about, I’d wager the woman is more than alive—just in a dead sleep after a night of withdrawals.
“Whoever it is that you two bitch about,” I snap, rubbing my index finger in the corner of my eye before cracking them open, “I’m sure she’ll be awake in no time with the ruckus you make.”
Kathy rears back to sit on her heels, hands fisted atop her thighs. Her pale blue eyes are wide with an impending meltdown, which wouldn’t be great considering her fingertips are still raw and bloodied, nails split, from a small lapse in sanity yesterday.
I lift an eyebrow at her. “Have you felt for a pulse?”
Nandi sighs. “Of course, we fucking have.”
“Then why are you two arguing about whether she’s breathing or not? Surely that would have told you if she kicked the bucket.” I push up to sit, and twist to see who Nandi fusses over.
Oh, shit.My head swims, stomach plummeting when the memory of last night’s events comes back in sickening 4K clarity.No wonder I slept so well.Yeah. She’s dead. I don’t have to touch her to know.
“See,” Nandi snaps at Kathy, gesturing to my state of shock. “She understands.”
“Would you three shut the hell up?” Darla rolls away from the wall to face our small committee, wild curls matted in a nest around her shoulders. “Unless you want to add to the body count.” She glares at the stiff woman beyond us. “Whatever happened to her, she deserved it.”
I mean, she’s not wholly wrong…
“Fuck this shit.” Nandi scuttles to the other side of the small room. “She creeps me out.”
Kathy glances to The Kid—a mute girl, all of eight or nine years old, curled against Eleanor’s side. The latter stares atus with blatant frustration. “Whatever you do,” she whispers, “move her so The Kid doesn’t see.”
“Is there anything we can throw over her?” Nandi asks, looking about the musty room.
I glance to the cinder block walls and then up to the timber sub-floor over our heads. “Sure,” I sass. “I’ll just tear one of the curtains down. I’m sure they won’t mind.” The only thing that filters light through the tiny square window high above the body is cobwebs.
And bars. Crudely welded bars. Probably added by whoever decided to move us here.
“Do you always have to be such a smartass?” Eleanor snipes.
I shrug. Saves acknowledging my true feelings about the situation.
About how badly I may have fucked up.
“You’re all a bunch of sooks,” Darla grouses, rousing herself from her sleeping position to crawl over to the body.
Give her cheeks some color and warmth, and you’d almost think Mary-Beth were having the best damn dream of her life. The tiniest smile tugs at one side of her pale, pillowy lips. The sight irritates me more than it should. Even in death, the woman mocks me with the truth.
“Give me a hand, will you?” Darla shoves her forearms beneath Mary-Beth’s right shoulder to scoop her up.
“What are you going to do?” Nandi drops down beside her and does the same with the woman’s hips and legs.
