Prologue #3
Slipping into the bathroom, I heave a heavy sigh and lock the door behind me.
The lights are too bright. I wince, turn away from the mirror, and slide to the floor with my back to the vanity. I can’t see anything but the unending nothingness of that fucking box.
Drawing my knees up, I wrap my arms around them. The motion tugs at the stitches in my torn and fire-blistered skin. My chest locks, and I can’t get a deep breath. Pressing both hands to my temples, I try to drown out the sound vibrating through my skull. But the memory’s too loud.
Screaming until my voice gave out. Cursing the cult’s leader, his minions, and Marvin—a Ranger who was supposed to be a friend. Or at least a halfway decent colleague.
I shove my fist against my mouth to choke off the sound threatening to claw its way out of me.
“Parker?” Nate knocks on the door. “You good?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, rocking from side to side.
Totally fine. Or totally not fine.
The words won’t come.
Metal rasps against metal. The knob rattles.
Click.
The door swings open, and I pin my gaze to Nate’s black boots as he steps inside. I can’t look up. If I do, he’ll see how close I am to losing my shit.
He lowers himself to the floor across from me like this is a stakeout and we’ve got nothing better to do.
“Your landlord has good taste in tile.” He’s so matter-of-fact, he might as well be talking about the weather. “I’ve sat on worse. There’s a metal folding chair in APD’s lobby that’s owed me an apology for five years now. This might as well be a spa day.”
I drag my sleeve across my cheek. “You clearly haven’t been to the good spas in town.”
“And you have?” He snorts. “Parker, you wouldn’t last ten minutes at a spa.”
I almost laugh. He’s right. My first, last, and only facial ended in disaster. The aesthetician put some slimy mask over my face, claustrophobia kicked in—hard—and I fell right off the table. Naked.
We sit in silence for a few minutes. Somewhere in another apartment, water runs.
“Go home, Nate,” I say softly. “I’m fine.”
He leans back, forearms on his knees, dark eyes steady on me. “Of course you are. But my fridge is probably a biohazard and I don’t feel like dealing with it tonight. Your couch is safer.”
My throat burns, but the vise trying to crush my chest eases a single notch. Enough I can pull in most of a breath.
It takes another few minutes before I find the strength to push myself up. My voice is rough at the edges. “Go wait for the food delivery. I can manage.”
He nods, relief easing the tight lines around his eyes. “Fine. But for the love of milkshakes everywhere, don’t make me pick the lock again. Especially if you’re naked.”
A short, sharp laugh bursts out of my raw throat. “Pervert.”
“You’re practically my sister, Parker. I mean it. I’d never recover.”
I don’t remember eating. Though my stomach feels less hollow than it did earlier. Don’t remember going to bed either. Everything after seeing Dr. Morris is a blur. I wake with a choked sob, my legs tangled in the sheets, and a dim light glowing from the hall.
“Did you know giraffes and humans have the same number of neck bones? We got cheated, big time. Stakeouts would be so much easier if our necks were eight feet long.”
“Wh-what?” I struggle through a deep breath and focus on Nate’s lanky silhouette leaning against the bedroom doorframe.
“Giraffes. Humans. Seven neck bones. Blows the mind.” He gestures with both hands next to his temples, spreading his fingers to mimic an explosion as he shakes his head.
“How do you even know this shit?” My voice is rough, but my heart stops pounding and the ringing in my ears fades.
“I’m a man of many talents.” He shrugs, runs a hand through his hair, and straightens. “Get some sleep, Parker.”
For the next two days, Nate does his best to be as annoying as possible. The man knows enough random facts, he could play trivia at a different bar every night of the week and probably make bank.
He never asked if I wanted him to stay. And I don’t tell him to leave, though I should. He’s like an overprotective big brother—I want to strangle him and hug him at the same time.
Every once in a while, I catch him watching me too closely, like he’s waiting for me to fall apart. But when it happens, I do it like the eldest—and only—daughter I am. In the shower.
I think he knows. But he never makes it weird.
By the third day, I’ve swapped out the thick gauze covering my hands for regular bandages and steri-strips. I even manage to wash my coffee mug without much trouble.
Nate watches me set the “Decaf is a cry for help” cup in the drying rack, nods once, and grabs his keys off the counter.
“All right,” he says, like me wielding a bottle of dish soap settled something for him. “I’m gonna head out.”
“Try not to get lost.” I have to force strength into my tone. I need him to stop hovering, but I don’t truly want to be alone either. “And put on a hazmat suit before you open your fridge.”
His dry chuckle follows him out the door, and I lean against the counter. This is fine. I’m fine. Everything’s…fine.