Chapter 4
FOUR
ELEVEN YEARS EARLIER
Julia gripped the edge of the vanity and stared at her reflection, wondering why there were two of her staring back. Focusing hard, she had to squint to make her mirror twins become one.
Her gaze swept the bathroom. A grimy sink. Mold blooming across the walls. She had no idea where she was. She’d lost that rather vital piece of information somewhere between her fourth and fifth vodka shots.
The door behind her burst open, and a girl stumbled in.
She looked panicked. Julia was about to ask what was wrong when it became obvious.
The girl groped for the toilet with outstretched arms, but she couldn’t get the lid up in time.
A torrent of vomit spattered over the cistern and dripped onto the floor.
Julia pressed herself against the vanity to avoid it. “Are you okay?” she asked, but the words didn’t seem to come out in the right order.
The girl ignored her. She just kneeled over the bowl, panting.
Julia had to get out of there before the smell made her puke, too. She stepped over the girl’s legs and went back out to the hallway. There was thudding music coming from downstairs. It was so loud she could feel it vibrating the floorboards under her feet.
Behind her, a man’s voice said, “There you are.”
She spun around, stumbling in her stilettos.
The man was very tall with black hair slicked back in an old-school quiff and a silver hoop glinting in one ear. He held a red Solo cup that reeked of bourbon.
That voice. That earring.
The memory came back in pieces. The club downtown.
Sweaty and loud, the bass pounding like a second heartbeat.
He’d been behind the DJ booth, headphones slung around his neck, eyes locked on her from the second she walked in.
Her pink minidress and sparkly Louboutins had clearly caught his attention.
She remembered the heat of the crowd, his hand on her lower back. The sting of the first shot. Then more. After that...
She blinked.
A taxi ride. His hand on her thigh. The rest was fog.
What was his name? Finn? No—Floyd.
She was swaying a little, and he took her arm to steady her. “Woah. You okay?”
She said nothing, just continued to stare stupidly up at him.
He handed her the cup. “You didn’t finish your drink.”
She didn’t want to drink anymore but took a sip out of politeness. The tip of her tongue felt numb.
He said, “You wanna go someplace quieter?”
“What?” she shouted back.
He grinned, then nodded towards the staircase. “Come on.”
She followed him, hitching up the strap of her handbag. “Oh, wait,” she called after him. “There’s a girl in the bathroom. She’s sick.”
Again, she got the feeling her words weren’t coming out in the right order because Floyd didn’t respond. He just kept walking down the stairs, weaving between the loved-up couples pressed against the wall and the passed-out loners splayed across the steps.
Not wanting to be left there on her own, she teetered after him.
Downstairs, in the crowded living room, the air stunk of weed and spilled beer. The bass from the speakers was so loud it made her eardrums ache. Following Floyd, she forced her way through the jam of bodies. He led her through the kitchen to a backdoor, then down a short flight of concrete steps.
The chilly night breeze raised goosebumps on Julia’s bare skin. She shivered and crossed her arms.
Light spilled out from the windows of the house, pooling on a small, cobbled courtyard. People had nodded off in patio chairs. A circle of guys stood off to the left, their faces illuminated grotesquely by the flicker of a lighter as it was passed around.
She felt like her head was floating about two feet above her body. She stumbled on an empty beer bottle, sending it skittering across the courtyard. The drink in her cup splashed over her hand, so she dropped it.
“You good?” Floyd said.
“I want to go back inside,” she said. At least, that was what she wanted to say.
But the words that came out of her mouth sounded like they were in a foreign language.
Floyd seemed to understand what she meant though, because he nodded and took her hand and led her back towards the house.
Relieved, she gripped his fingers and stumbled after him.
The sounds of the party grew distant. She realized they weren’t going back to the house at all. They were moving around the side of it. She looked behind her, but the shadowy figures in the yard were no longer in sight.
To her left, a dog gave two sharp barks, then a low, menacing growl.
Her feet hit metal. He was leading her up steps.
She forced herself to wake up and assess where she was—standing in the doorway of an old RV. It was dark inside; she had to strain her eyes to make out the room. The air felt thick.
She stood still for a moment, confused. Had she wanted to come in here? She focused hard, but trying to think seemed to require an enormous effort.
The door closed behind her. She whirled around and found Floyd right there, his hands on her shoulders, walking her backwards.
Her back hit something solid. A wall, or a cupboard. He was crowding in against her, his hands gripping her upper arms, his breath on her face, hot and alcoholic.
She tried to push him off her, but he was pinning her arms, pressing all his weight against her. He leaned in close, his face near hers, clearly intending to kiss her. She turned her face away and his teeth grazed her jaw. Both hands were tugging at her dress; she heard a rip as the fabric tore.
She shoved him again, harder this time, but all it did was make his smirk grow.
I should be stopping this, she thought. I shouldn’t just be letting this happen. Angling her face away, she hissed, “Get off me.”
Outside, the dog was whining by the door. Its claws made a grating sound as they scratched against the metal. She inhaled, intending on screaming as loud as she could to set the dog off barking again.
Floyd raised his hand to her neck and squeezed it between his fingers and thumb. He shoved her head back until it hit the wall behind her with a thud. Screaming became impossible.
She sobbed against his hand, hot tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes. Again, she tried to mobilize her arms, but they felt numb and useless.
She couldn’t breathe. She tossed her head from side to side, trying to shake his grip off, trying to make a space so she could suck in some air. But he was too strong. Bright white spots danced in front of her vision.
This is it, she realized. This is how I’m going to die.
Bright yellow light filled the room. Instinctively, she clamped her eyes shut.
Behind Floyd, she heard a faint metallic snick.
Floyd’s body tensed against hers. His grip on her neck eased.
Julia gulped a lungful of air. The bright spots receded. She opened her eyes, squinting against the harsh light.
Floyd was still pressing his hips against hers. But he’d let go of her. She watched as he lifted both hands toward the ceiling like he was being compelled by a higher power. His sour breath washed over her face. “What the actual fuck?”
She raised her chin to see over his shoulder. There was a man standing behind him. He was taller than Floyd and was calmly holding a pistol to the back of his head. Tattoos crawled up his neck. When he spoke, his voice was soft but laced with menace. “This is private property, pendejo.”
Floyd, hands still in the air, gave a nervous laugh. “Bruh, chill out, alright? We didn’t think anyone was in here.”
The other man said nothing, just continued to press the pistol to Floyd’s head like he was trying to bore a hole in his skull.
Floyd’s colorless face went even paler. He flicked his tongue over his lips, then said, “We’re sorry, man. We just wanted a little privacy. My girl couldn’t keep her hands off me.”
The man with the gun shifted his gaze from the back of Floyd’s head to Julia’s face. She dropped her head, so she didn’t have to make eye contact, but still felt his stare travel over her. She realized how she must look, pressed against the wall, her face streaked with mascara-laced tears.
There was a dull crack, the sound of metal hitting bone, then a loud thud. The trailer quaked beneath her feet.
Her eyes flew open to find Floyd out cold on the vinyl floor. The other guy stood over him, the pistol he’d just used as a club still outstretched in his right hand.
Julia took a shaky step to one side. The guy jerked the gun in her direction.
Instinctively, she raised her hands. “Please,” she whispered.
Then everything went black.
* * *
Her limbs felt wrong. Heavy. Disconnected.
Sheets rasped against her skin—cheap, scratchy fabric—but she couldn’t remember lying down. There was a bitter taste in her mouth, like stale liquor and something metallic.
Her head throbbed. Somewhere nearby, a bass line pounded. No, maybe that was her pulse.
She kept her eyes shut. The dark behind her eyelids felt safer than what might be waiting when she opened them.
A whiff of something chemical drifted past—cleaning product? Cologne?
Her stomach turned.
This wasn’t her bed.
This wasn’t her room.
She forced herself to open her eyes. The blur slowly hardened into shapes. A bed. A narrow room. Daylight leaking through the slats of a grimy window
None of it felt familiar.
She pushed herself up onto her elbows. Her head felt as light as a balloon.
Then it exploded in pain, like someone had driven a metal spike into her skull.
She squeezed her temples between her finger and thumb, feeling a vein pulsing thickly under the skin.
Her mouth was tacky, and she had a desperate thirst.