Chapter 18
HARVEE
"Donna, I think I need to go home."
"Of course, hon. It's not like the boss man is going to yell at you." She catches herself almost smiling and straightens her face.
She's not the only one in this office quietly relieved not to see Turner today.
He'd made emotional punching bags of half the staff at one point or another, and everyone knew what he aimed at me specifically.
The comments. The looks. The accidents that weren't accidents.
He was shameless about it, and most people looked the other way, but Donna never did.
She'd text me every time he said something that made my skin crawl, just to confirm I wasn't imagining it, that I wasn't crazy for hating it here and still showing up every morning.
She made this place survivable. I don't know what I would have done without her.
I scribble a note for my desk and wave at her on the way out. Her smile back is warm and her eyes are worried, which is exactly what Donna's face does when she can't say what she actually means.
Something stops me in the parking lot.
A patrol car at the far edge, engine idling. The officer inside looks up as I walk past. We make eye contact. He drops his gaze to his phone, then looks back up, glasses sliding to the bridge of his nose, then looks down again. Writing something. Or typing.
I get in my car and tell myself it's nothing.
The drive home feels heavier than it should.
The air thick, the city too loud, every red light lasting a beat too long.
I make it to my building, park in my spot, step out, and the prickling starts immediately.
The back of my neck. The particular crawl of feeling observed from a direction I can't identify.
I move fast to the door.
Inside, I throw the latch, the lock, the deadbolt. My back hits the cold metal and I stay there, fingers curled around the knob, sliding down an inch before I catch myself.
My chest is pounding. Shallow breaths that don't add up to enough air, that keep coming faster the more I try to slow them. I count inhales. The numbers won't line up with my body. The hallway tilts and stretches at the edges of my vision.
I press the back of my head against the door and focus on the cold metal at my spine. Find something solid. Stay in it.
When I can stand up straight again I cross to the window and lift the curtain just enough.
A patrol car. Parked near mine.
"What the fuck," I say, to no one.
I drop the curtain. Go to my bedroom. Yank the blinds shut and lock the door and lie down on top of the covers and wait for my heart rate to decide it's done with me.
It isn't. Not for a long time.
I flip the pillow. Change positions. Close my eyes and open them again.
The ceiling tilts. My stomach lurches. I push myself upright aiming for the bathroom and my knees hit the floor instead, dry heaves tearing through me in waves, violent and completely useless.
Nothing comes up. There's nothing left to give.
Please stop. Please.
At some point the pain blurs out.
When I come back to myself, my cheek is pressed against plastic. The rim of my trash can, imprinted into my face. The light through the blinds has shifted. Hours, then.
I reach for the half-empty water bottle on my nightstand and the first sip hits my empty stomach like a fist. I gasp and force down another one anyway.
My head weighs too much to lift properly. Everything feels dense and waterlogged, like my body has been packed with wet sand while I was unconscious. I am profoundly, embarrassingly weak.
I lie there and try to account for myself.
This has to be the worst hangover of my life. Except the timeline is wrong. This is Monday. Friday was three days ago.
I take another sip of water and don't let myself finish the thought.