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Nothing. All in my mind. Goddammit.
I’m about to get up, head to the bathroom and splash some cold water on my face, when I realize I’m staring at the flat screen TV mounted high up on the wall. It’s been playing all along, on mute. Halo isn’t technically a sports bar, but lots of guys hang out here and they like to watch their football and basketball.
A presenter is talking, a pretty brunette, her hair pulled up, dark-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. Her face is earnest as she gestures at a house behind her. The neighborhood looks familiar somehow.
The crawl running at the bottom catches my eye—or maybe I’ve been reading it all along. Breaking news, it reads. Man murdered in Madison.
The hairs on the back of my neck lift. That’s the only warning I get before I find myself in my parents’ house four years ago, cowering in a corner. The walls are splashed with blood, the copper tang so strong I can taste it at the back of my tongue. Makes me gag. Makes me dizzy with fear. A massive shudder rips through me.
Not real, I tell myself. Not real. You know that. It’s a memory. A flashback set by the news about the murder. It’s a trigger.
Need to ground myself. I’m still in the house, can still smell the blood. I need something to distract me, bring me back to the present. Blindly I put my hands forward and knock into something. My drum set, I realize, when the cymbals clang. The jarring sound jerks me out of the memory, and I blink, dazed.
The bar. The stage. My drums, still wobbling from my shove, the cymbals jingling. I look down at my hands. They’re trembling. My heart is thudding so hard it’s knocking against my ribs.
Then I feel it—the silence, spreading in circles. I look up and find people staring at me, eyes wide. The crowd jostles closer, to see what’s happening.
Fuck.
From the corner of my eye I see Koko heading my way like a small dark whirlwind, elbowing people to reach me, and I’m not sure I can take it. Not sure I could even stand to be touched right now.
So I jump to my feet, grab my jacket from the back of the chair and head the other way, searching for the back door. I need out. Need fresh air.
Need a moment to put the pieces of myself together again.
I’m none too gentle as I shove a path through the milling customers, not even stopping to pull on my jacket in my rush to get out of there.
I push, and the crowd pushes right back. Disoriented, I turn in a circle, trying to get my bearings, and the emergency exit sign winks at me. I shove my way to it, press down on the metal bar and stumble out onto an empty side street.
Cold air hits my face. I take a few steps and bend over, hands braced on my thighs, drawing in breath after shuddering breath.
Fucking hell.
Lately, I don’t have it all together. Not since I thought I saw… That guy. The guy with the tattoo that’s branded in my memory with blood and fire.
Can’t be, though. My mind was probably playing tricks on me. It often does, doesn’t it?
I’m so tired of fighting. Fighting a war against myself and losing. A war against my own mind. I train to be ready—for what? How can a strong body help against a gun? Against a knife? Against anything?
Still I can’t help myself. I can’t stop. It’s all too much.
The anniversary is coming up fast, I can feel it in my bones, and the news my uncle gave me a couple of months ago about the tattoo shop is tearing at my mind. I need to find a solution, but I still don’t know how.
As for the man I saw…
What if it’s true? Four years ago, the killer walked free. The police never caught him. I’m the only witness. No fingerprints, no DNA traces, nothing. Except for my one, brief glimpse of his face and a tattoo I’m not even sure I saw.
And yet… And yet, what if last summer, passing right outside the building where Ash used to fight in the illegal underground cages, I saw the murderer of my family?
***
When I walk back inside Halo, my face is composed, my mask firmly in place, and my hands are steady. My cheekbones hurt from the cold, and the blast of warm air as I enter is more than welcome.
I have no clue for how long I stayed outside, but as I approach the small stage, I find there not only the members of the group, but also Zane and Dylan, arguing over something, gesturing at the crowded bar.
As I step onto the stage, they turn toward me and freeze in mid-gesture. Zane’s brows lower and he opens his mouth to say something.
Dakota hurries toward me and grabs my arm, tugging me toward my drum set. “There you are. I was telling the guys you stepped out a second to make a phone call, but they were worried. Come on, time to start.”
