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My shift is almost over, and thank fuck for that. If I’ve been distracted before, I’m useless now, the same questions rolling around my head.
Also thank fuck Damage Control is closed today. That’s probably due to Zane’s wedding tomorrow, but possibly about something more ordinary, like repairs. I think the bathroom of the shop has a leak.
I wouldn’t know. I didn’t ask why, and nobody volunteered the information. It doesn’t matter.
What the fuck do I do?
Can Seth help me? Or Cassie? Christ, I need someone to tell me I’m not bound for the loony bin just yet.
I stomp through the site, tugging off my helmet, letting a gust of icy wind lash my hair over my face, let the driving snow blind me.
I’m blind anyway, caught in a nightmare, as I trudge past other workers, heading out. Something hits my back and drops to the ground. I stop, bend and pick it up.
It’s a box of matches.
Whatever. Crushing the damn matchbox in my fist, I take a deep breath and start moving again. This day is officially over. Better get outta here before I smash someone’s head against my fists.
But as I walk through the snow, darkness is seeping into my vision, the monsters edging closer.
Three steps later I have to stop. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong, and I can’t—
Cinnamon. I smell fucking cinnamon and sweat, and I whirl around, my heart tripping. What the hell?
Three men are having a smoke under a scaffold, huddled in their bright yellow jackets. A fourth guy is talking on his cell phone. Two more are turned away from me, talking.
The smell has already faded, carried away by another gust of wind.
Or never fucking was in the first place.
Going crazy.
Or already am.
As I turn back around and try hard not to run, outrun the oncoming flashback, I fish my cell out of my back pocket and dial.
But the person who answers isn’t Seth. It’s Cassie.
I want to howl. Everything is twisting around me, inside me.
“Please,” I whisper as the frozen-over plot of land turns into tiles and bars and caged shadows, and someone grabs my arm. “Please take me home.”
***
Miss me bitch? Miss me? Miss me?
I’m on the ground. The prison closes in around me. Pain lances up my back. My scalp hurts where my hair is pulled. I taste sourness in my mouth.
Smell of cinnamon.
God.
Something’s tethering me, pulling as I fight to get free. Time jumps, loops, as I find myself on my back again, trying to sit up.
Then again.
And again.
“Let me go!”
