1. Maggie
1
Maggie
A familiar ringing drags me from a deep sleep. My eyes are heavy, refusing to open. There’s a pounding at the base of my skull, keeping time with my heartbeat. Fighting through the fog inside my head, I wrack my brain, trying to remember exactly what happened last night.
The last thing I remember was being at work, ready to go home so I could dive into the new romance novel waiting for me. I had plans to soak in a warm bath, and crack open the bottle of chilled wine in the refrigerator. I never got to start my new book though, did I? I didn’t. But why? I don’t know, but with how my head feels, I might have drank the whole bottle and then some.
I groan as I force myself to sit, my whole-body aching and sore. I touch the back of my head and find a small, tender knot there. I wince as I gently prod at it with my fingers. What the hell?
Memories come crashing back to me in broken starts and stops, blurred images of rough, calloused fingers on my skin, dirty hands tangled in my hair, and blood. Oh God… so much blood. I bring my hands to my face, expecting them to be covered in red, still able to feel the sticky warmth clinging to my skin. When I pull them back, however, they are perfectly clean. Pristine. Not one trace of evidence that any of it was even real.
My hands fall limp to my lap and brush against cool, silky fabric. I look down, noticing that I’m dressed in a satin slip nightgown I never wear—usually opting for a long cotton t-shirt instead. I bought it hoping it would give me confidence, make me more desirable to my ex. In case you were wondering, it didn't.
I stand on shaky legs, looking around my room but not finding anything out of place. My small, one-bedroom studio is exactly the same as when I left for work yesterday, providing no clues as to how I got here or why I’m dressed this way.
Frantically, I begin searching for my discarded clothes from the day before. I need to find them, need to see them clean and unbloodied. I need to prove to myself that last night was only a dream, just a nightmare my overactive imagination conjured up, that I’m not actually going crazy.
Despite my exhaustive search, however, there is no trace of the blue dress I wore yesterday. Actually, now that I think about it, my underwear and shoes are also missing. Ok… that’s definitely weird.
My palms feel clammy, and a trickle of sweat rolls down my spine, as my breathing quickens. What if last night wasn’t just a nightmare after all? Then that would mean the events from my dream were…real. That would mean?—
I sprint to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before throwing up. My knees sink into the plush rug as I cling to the porcelain, heaving until I completely empty the meager contents of my stomach. No. There is no way I killed a man last night. I refuse to believe that.
Rising on wobbly legs, I walk to the sink, splashing my face with cold water. I peer into the vanity mirror, taking in my wide-eyed expression. Other than my already fair skin being a shade too pale and the prominent dark circles that rim my eyes, I look unchanged. Nothing in my appearance would clue me in as to just what the hell happened last night.
It was only a dream. It was only a dream. I repeat it over and over until I can start to feel my racing heart slow and my muscles unwind. Okay…so there is a real possibility I might be going crazy. It’s fine. I may not be able to remember anything from last night, but one thing I do know is that I am not a murderer. There is no way I am capable of that. I refuse to believe it.
I can’t believe it…because that would mean I let the darkness win.
Maybe I did drink that whole bottle of wine after all. Maybe I drank too much last night and blacked out. That’s when I fell and hit my head. That would explain the bump back there and why I have no memories after work. That must be it—right?
Although, it doesn’t really sound like something I would do. Usually, I stick to only one or two drinks max. My past experiences with alcohol have not been great, but it’s the only logical explanation I have at the moment so, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
That ringing starts up again, and I walk around, trying to find my phone amidst the chaos of my now destroyed room. I tore apart the tiny space in the search for my clothes, and I may have gone a teensy bit overboard. It now looks as if a hurricane has blown straight through here.
By the time I finally dig it out from under the bed, the ringing has stopped. There are three missed calls, all from my boss, Jane.
“Shit!” I curse under my breath. One glance at the time lets me know that I am now very late for work. I immediately hit the callback button, still trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for my tardiness when she picks up.
“Good morning sleepyhead,” she says in a sing-song voice. “Running a little behind this morning, are we?”
“Yes. I’m so sorry. I must have overslept.” It technically isn’t a lie.
“It’s okay, dear. Take your time. You know we’re never that busy during the weekdays. Feel free to take the day off if you need to,” she offers. “You work too hard anyway. You deserve a break every now and then, you know? You’re still young. You should enjoy life while you can. One day, you’ll be old like me, and you won’t be able to do the same things you once could.”
I feel a pang in my chest at her words. Jane, my boss and the owner of J. Austin Books, the bookstore where I work, is also my adoptive mother. She was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis about fourteen years ago.
Fortunately, it was relapsing-remitting, so she would have prolonged periods of remission between her symptoms. In the early stages, her exacerbations were fairly mild and infrequent, but they’ve gotten slightly worse the older she gets. My biggest fear is that it will transition into the secondary progressive type and I will have to watch on helplessly as she deteriorates.
“You’re not old,” I tell her, my voice thick. Though her appearance has aged some over the years, at fifty she’s hardly old. Still, I know some days she probably feels closer to eighty with the way the disease weighs on her. “And don’t worry—I’m still planning on coming in. Just give me twenty minutes, and I’ll be there.”
“Don’t rush. Seriously, I’ll be fine on my own. I’ll just be here unloading all these boxes.” A wave of apprehension creeps down my spine.
“What boxes?” I ask, not remembering seeing any boxes in the storeroom last night.
“The shipment I ordered, of course. Thank you for staying late to let them in. One of the boxes contained a new release for today, and I have already had a few calls this morning asking if we had it in stock. Of course, I’ve already put my copy aside. One of the perks of being the owner…” She goes on cheerfully, completely unaware I’ ve stopped listening. Instead, I’m silently freaking out, because I have no idea what she’s talking about.
I didn’t let any delivery guys in last night. At least, I don’t think I did. I vaguely remember waiting for someone to come, but no one ever showed up. After that, there is a big gaping hole in my memories, this missing chunk of time and no matter how hard I try, I cannot remember what happened next.
“Mags…You still there, honey?” Jane asks, after I’ve been quiet a beat too long. I’m not even sure when she stopped talking.
“Uh—yea. I’m fine.”
“You sure? You sound a bit off,” she says, concern lacing her voice. “Are you sure you don’t want to take the day?”
I consider it, tempted to take her up on her offer. I’m not feeling fine at all, but I know if I don’t go, she’ll wind up overdoing it. Then, she will have to spend the next several days in bed recovering.
“No. I’m good. Promise,” I say, in what I hope is a reassuring tone.
“Ok… I’ll see you in a bit.”
“Hey!” she calls out before I hang up. “Do you mind stopping by Oliver’s on your way? I could really go for a chai latte with almond milk. I would get it myself, but I don’t want to have to lock up the store.”
“Of course. See you soon.” Hanging up, I remind myself again that it was only a dream.
As I go about getting ready, however, I can’t seem to shake the nagging feeling that maybe it wasn’t. With no shred of evidence and nothing else to go on, there is no way to prove it one way or the other.
One thing I do know, though, is that even if I was capable of killing a man—which I’m not—there is no way I could have disposed of a body and cleaned up a crime scene by myself. And come on… It’s not like anyone else would do it. Cover up a stranger’s crime? Now that would be crazy.
Maybe going to work is a good idea after all. Maybe once I get to the shop and see the wood oak floors sans blood, everything will seem better.
It doesn’t.
If anything, it’s worse. My anxiety is through the roof, which is making me twitchy and paranoid. The entire time I am in line at Oliver’s I can swear I’m being watched. However, when I look around, no one’s paying any special attention to me.
By the time I get to work, drinks in hand—Jane’s chai and a caramel latte for me—I am jumpier than a frog.
I set my bag down and walk to the back to help Jane finish unloading the boxes.
I barely make it two steps into the storeroom before I freeze. A wave of icy panic claws its way down my throat, choking me, making it nearly impossible to breathe. My hands start to shake so bad, I almost spill hot coffee all over myself and the floor.
Setting them gently on the counter, I fight through the fear and anxiety by taking a few slow, deep breaths, reminding myself once again that I’m ok, nothing happened.
If I was unsure before, I am now certain it was a dream, because this room is exceptionally ordinary. There are no signs of a struggle, no bloodstains, and absolutely no dead bodies on the glossy oak floor.
Jane, who has had her back to me, now turns, her smile falling when she finds me frozen in the doorway. Walking over, she takes my icy hands in hers.
“Honey, what’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
Shaking off the panic, I force a smile to my face, rushing to reassure her that everything is okay. I can’t stand to see the worry tightening the corners of her eyes. Not wanting to cause her any undue stress, I pull myself together.
“I’m good,” I say, drawing back my hands before turning to pick up our drinks. I hand her hers before taking a sip of mine, letting the hot liquid warm my chilled bones.
“I was just in a rush and I must have forgotten to eat. That’s all. Nothing this sugary latte won’t fix,” I say, with forced cheer, choking as I take another large gulp of the scalding liquid. Jane pats me on the back as I begin coughing and sputtering, coffee scorching the back of my throat.
“Ok,” she says, eyeing me skeptically. “If you’re sure. I may have a granola bar in the break room. It’s yours if you want it. ”
“Thanks. I may go grab it.” I’m not actually hungry, but I use it as an excuse to leave this room and take a moment alone to get myself fully under control. Pushing all thoughts of murder or scary, violent men to the far reaches of my mind, I lock them up tight in a mental vault where I’ll never have to think of them again.
I tell myself I need to get over it. It was just a dream, after all. It wasn’t real.
Nothing happened.