Page 5 of Taken Away

The sound died against the fabric.

The world narrowed to heat and darkness.

Above her, she heard breathing.

Ragged.

Panicked.

The pressure deepened.

Her lungs screamed.

No air.

Her right hand clawed weakly, but her left arm hung useless, burning. Her heart no longer pounded. It skidded inside her chest, erratic and wrong.

Downstairs, Moose hurled himself against the back door, again and again, the heavy rhythm rattling through the house.

“Please…”

The pillow did not move.

Her fingers weakened.

The room slipped away inch by inch.

The last thing Mabel heard was Moose trying to break the door down to get back to her.

Then everything stopped.

ONE

The Drift Bar: Sylva, North Carolina

Aubrey Langford

Somewhere between Asheville and Sylva, Aubrey Langford’s phone had surrendered completely.

No signal. No email. No texts. To Aubrey, it felt vaguely apocalyptic.

She’d caught the first available flight out of Philly, landed in Asheville after sunset, and spent the last forty-five minutes navigating the slick, aggressive twists of the mountain highway.

She was running on airport coffee, frayed nerves, and exhaustion. Coming back here wasn’t part of the plan.

By the time the lights of Blackwater Lake Lodge appeared through the trees, Aubrey’s shoulders ached from tension, and her jaw hurt from clenching. She had spent the last few days answering to a corporate board in Philadelphia that was dismantling her department piece by piece; indefinite leave was corporate language for you're already gone.

Taking a slow, steadying breath, she parked, grabbed her overnight bag and trench, and followed the glow of warm light and low music down a side path toward the bar the front-desk clerk had called “The Drift.”

The Drift Bar felt like a sanctuary of reclaimed timber and low amber light. Quiet booths tucked into the corners and wide windows overlooking the lake made it feel a world away from everything outside.

Aubrey sat at the far end of the bar, her coat draped over the stool like a shield. She didn’t look at the menu; she couldn’t handle another decision.

She wanted something that burned enough to quiet the noise.

“Blackberry margarita,” she told the bartender, her tone clipped. “Half-sugar, half-salt rim. Three muddled blackberries—not four. I don’t want it syrupy. And please tell me you have a top-shelf reposado. I’m not in the mood for well water.”

A low, gravelly huff came from the man two stools down. He was hunched over a glass of amber liquid dark enough to be jet fuel. His dark hair was a mess, his flannel shirt rumpled, and his attention was fixed on the grain of the wood like he was trying to memorize it. He looked like sleep had given up on him two days ago.