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I bite my lower lip again, listing in my head all the reasons Troy is nothing like my husband. Praying I’m not making a mistake in letting my wall slide down a little.
* * *
I lowerthe large bag of flour to the floor next to the industrial-sized mixer. The lights in the prison kitchen flicker off, and I’m thrown into pitch-blackness.
I expect to hear some heavy female cursing, but there’s nothing. Nothing other than the jarring silence that I feel in my bones.
I want to call out to see if anyone else is in here. But I don’t. I know better.
The loud clang of metal hitting metal reverberates through the darkness and moves steadily toward me.Bang.…Bang.…Bang.
The sound of my breathing and heartbeat bounces off the walls and the floor, and I pray they don’t give away my location.Move,my brain screams to my body.Don’t let them find you.
Bang.…Bang.…Bang.
It’s a game aimed to scare me. Goody for them; they’re winning.
My brain screams its command again.Run! Run! Run!This time my body gets on board with the memo. I drop to all fours and slowly crawl across the tile floor, but I have no idea where the exit is.Fuckers, where did the sign go?
Panic rises in my chest, rattles my heart to pick up its pace.
Between the rhythmic beats of the clanging, another sound can be heard. It’s slower, softer, steady. The squeak of a shoe against the tiles. The clanging stops. The sole-squeak advances in my direction. Slow and even.Squeak.…Squeak.…Squeak.
I have no doubt that I’m the target. No doubt that this time they want me dead.
If I make it to the door, will I even be able to escape? Or is someone waiting for me there too?
There’s no point in screaming. No one will protect me. Everyone will look the other way.
Tears soak my cheeks.Don’t sniff. Don’t sniff and give my location away.
I hear a whimper and something wet tickles my face. I’m being licked. Doggy breath assaults my nose. Since when did Beckley have dogs?
I’m not in prison anymore. I’m not in prison. I’m safe. I’m not in prison.
I repeat it several times and then use another nightmare-escaping strategy Robyn taught me. Whoever is after me is an ice cream cone, and the heat in the room is melting them. A puddle of pistachio ice cream spreads across the floor.
“I’m not in prison anymore. I’m not in prison. I’m safe. I’m not in prison,”I repeat it several more times in my dream, and slowly bring myself back to the present and my bedroom.
The room is dark, other than the glow of the nightlight. Bailey was on her bed when I went to sleep. Now she’s next to me, her warm body pressed against mine.
I wiggle my arm free from where it’s trapped between us, and I wrap it around her. “Thank you.”
I wipe my damp face with my hand and stare at the deep shadows looming on the ceiling. I lie there for a few minutes, walking my body through several relaxation exercises. When I fail to fall asleep, I reach for the World War II nonfiction book about D-Day and flick on the lamp.
A warm light fills the room, chasing away the shadows. I check the time on my phone. 2:21 a.m.
Damn.I have to get up in a few hours for work.
PTSD plus exhaustion is an equation that never ends well.
45
JESSICA
May, Present Day
Maple Ridge
