Page 87 of Within These County Lines

It’s just me.

I take a deep breath to steady myself. “My friend is waiting in the car. We’re—”

“The identity of our clients is confidential,” she cuts in, folding her hands over the desk.

“We’re not looking for a client,” I say. “We are hoping to speak with Dara. She works here.”

The woman raises an eyebrow. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

The moment the word leaves my lips, I regret it.

She points her pen at the door. “Then you’ll have to come back tomorrow. We’re closing soon.”

Xander huffs. “This is stupid,” he says. “I’m going back there to find her.”

“What?” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer. He strides forward, ignoring the Please wait to be called sign, and disappears through a side door.

“Dara is wrapping up with another client right now,” the receptionist says, misunderstanding my alarm meant for Xander.

“But . . . we . . .”

I search the lobby for an excuse to stay, something to buy us a little time. But there’s nothing. It’s all motivational posters and pictures of the Appalachians—the mountain range I can’t seem to escape. The images remind me of their permanence in my life.

“But my friend . . .” My voice softens.

The receptionist stands, adjusting her glasses. “Who’s in the car? Is this an emergency, young man?”

“Yes!” I shout. The word comes out sharp. I step forward and grip the edge of her desk. The woman presses a hand to her heart. “It is an emergency,” I insist. “Can we be seen?”

She pulls open a drawer and retrieves a clipboard stacked with intake forms. “Fill this out. And then—”

A scream tears through the air. A raw, guttural scream.

It ricochets off the cinder block walls and rattles my rib cage. The receptionist gasps and drops the clipboard from her hands. It clatters against the desk, then tumbles to the floor, landing on my foot.

But I don’t feel it.

I don’t feel anything except the satisfaction of that scream.

“Dara!” the receptionist cries, scrambling from her chair. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

But I already know.

37

I throw open the door beside reception and sprint toward the endless screams. The sound cuts through the silence of the hall like a blade.

In the farthest office, Dara is keeled over beside her desk, dry heaving. The choking gasps soon stop her cries. Xander crouches beside her, squeezing her hand and rubbing small circles on her back.

The receptionist rushes in behind me. “Dara!” she shouts. “Have you fallen?”

She steps through Xander to reach her and he bursts apart. A cloud of purple-tinged dust explodes around the office. The particles of his body swirl in the dim light.

A wave of vomit rises in my throat as pieces of his face, arms, and legs scatter into the air, hovering above Dara’s head. I swallow it down before it escapes across the office.