Chapter 2
Lucy
Why, oh why, did I agree to work until closing?
Four hours still remain in this shift, but I’m already beat.
Closing my eyes for a few minutes in the staff break room isn’t going to cut it. At least I’m alone in here, so I don’t need to keep up my everything is right with the world front.
My anxiety’s through the roof today. Every person, every sound, every situation I find myself dealing with catapults my mind back to the horrors of…
My heart races, and my breath comes in shallow gasps.
Cold sweat breaks out on my forehead.
Trembling, I sit on the tweed couch in the center of the space, where I can keep an eye on the door. I shake my head, attempting to clear it the same way a headbanger bops to a metal anthem. Not helping.
I focus on my respirations, counting as I drag air in and out of my lungs.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
One.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
Two.
When I get to ten, the anxiety starts to subside, and I study my surroundings. Anything to distract me from my thoughts.
The break room’s about the size of a one-car garage and stuffed to the gills with a bunch of useless stuff. Desks line the far wall, serving as receptacles for old binders full of Café Tomé recipes, current and retired. Posters, employee photographs, and staff awards litter the walls.
A coat rack. A kitchenette. One entryway to the administrative office. A water cooler by the door.
I fit into this hodgepodge pretty seamlessly now that I think about it. A lump of tired flesh melting into an ancient sofa.
All I can do when I start to panic is try not to think. Not about what happened. Not about what’s happening. Not about my sister being an entire continent away. Not about Callum Kavanagh lurking in the front room.
Just don’t think, Lucy.
At times like these, when my plummeting mental health has me feeling like a crumpled-up leaf getting batted around by a strong wind, I resort to grounding techniques. I rely on my breath, on yoga, on meditation to pull me through.
But today, I’m more on edge than usual, and I find that little orange prescription bottle safely tucked away in my purse in the purple lockers behind me very tempting.
I don’t take the pills often. The thought of medication altering my mental or physical state distresses me.
On the flip side, the doctor would only prescribe them if I needed the extra help.
Though I’ve lassoed the panic attack, my head continues pounding.
After a few more deep breaths, I scrape myself off the couch. When I pull my locker door open, my reflection in the hanging mirror greets me.
Immediately, my heart sinks.
I don’t recognize the woman staring back. I haven’t recognized her for a while.
The mirror used to show a happy young woman who’d overcome a childhood marred by loss, suffering, and separation. Someone with her whole life ahead of her. Someone who, despite past heartbreak, used to be innocent. Well, maybe not innocent but certainly not damaged goods.
Now? My reflection reveals a person who’s nervous and defiant. Someone who doesn’t know how to relax or trust anything. Or anyone.
I don’t know who I am anymore.
Some days, I feel like I’m stuck in “survival mode.” Like all my other states of existence have short-circuited.
The evidence appears in my daily choices constantly. Right down to my wardrobe.
I’m currently wearing a thin, long-sleeved shirt and long pants in August. Because I don’t want anyone to see the scars on my body.
The bruises healed weeks ago, but I can still see them, still feel them. I still get paranoid other people will notice and draw conclusions about my past.
I’m sporting the ugliest shoes ever to grace my feet.
Comfortable, non-slip tennis shoes—so I can sprint away at a moment’s notice.
Fitted black pants, not to show off my body, but because I’m terrified of a stranger grabbing me, and snug outfits make that more difficult.
All my clothing must allow for easy movement now too.
Restrictive fabrics are too claustrophobic.
My anxiety spikes if I don’t have a pocket to put my phone in, because I fret that I’ll miss a call from Maya. Or won’t have my phone if I need it.
My closet at home is full of low-cut tops and short skirts that hardly see the light of day anymore. I force myself to try them on for a few minutes every once in a while just to prove that I can. After all, it’s not like a more conservative top would’ve changed anything.
Still, low-cut shirts and hip-hugging miniskirts leave me feeling vulnerable and exposed. Seeing all my skin under the light of day—knowing anyone else can see it, too, or touch it—throws me into panic mode.
I like to pretend I’m fine and that what happened to me doesn’t have any lasting effects on my life or well-being, but the woman in the mirror always conveys a different story.
My anxiety starts to ramp up again as I tear my gaze away from my reflection and rummage through my bag for the medication. I finally close my hand around the bottle, but as soon as I fish it from the depths of my purse, I realize it’s empty.
I’m out.
To keep my prescription active, I’m required to attend regular therapy sessions. I didn’t think much of that condition at first. I wasn’t planning to use the meds or go to therapy all that often, but with my anxiety on a hair trigger and bone-deep exhaustion settling over me…
Suddenly, I remember that I took this double shift just to give myself a good reason to ditch the therapy appointment scheduled for later this afternoon. I scrub a palm over my face. Why am I such an idiot?
A moment later, my apron pocket shrills and vibrates against my thigh.
It’s not Maya’s ringtone.
My heart pounds as I pluck my phone out.
The caller ID stares back at me. It’s the assistant district attorney of New York City.
Calling me.
Dammit.
I pick up, both grateful for and resentful of my current privacy. Why couldn’t I have a convenient excuse not to answer?
“Miss Marlow?” The low, clear voice of Andromeda Calgary finds my ear.
“Yes.” My first attempt at a reply emerges high-pitched yet muffled. I clear my throat. “Hi. What can I do for you?”
“I’m calling about the case.” Gravity colors her tone. “There’s been an unfortunate development. One of the other trafficking victims set to testify has gone missing.”
Fear squeezes my heart, leaving me breathless. Speechless. A beat passes as the room spins.
“Miss Marlow, are you still there?”
I close my eyes. “Yes, sorry. Is she…do you know what happened?”
“Not yet. That’s why I’m calling you and all the other witnesses. Have you observed any suspicious or threatening behavior lately from the people around you?”
Callum flashes to mind. “No.” Not unless a sociopathic tendency toward calmness even when provoked counts.
“Have you received any messages, phone calls, or other correspondence about the case or your participation in it from strangers or anyone else?”
My throat tightens as if crushed by a massive fist. “No.”
“Okay. Good. But please be extra cautious in the coming days and weeks. Call the police if you ever feel unsafe for any reason. I can also put you in touch with protective services, if you feel an armed escort would be better—”
“I’m fine,” I say a little too harshly. “I mean, it’s okay. I’m all right.”
“May I ask,” she pauses, as if considering her words, “whether you’ve had a chance to check out any of the mental health resources my office sent to you?”
Irritation and avoidance roil together in my gut. “Like I said, Ms. Calgary—”
“Please call me Andri.”
“Andri.” I swallow another knot. “I did look into the resources, and I’m doing fine. Thank you for calling.” I end the phone call and exhale like I just sprinted through a cemetery while holding my breath.
My heart tremors.
A witness has gone missing.
Just like I did a few months ago…
I shiver, goose bumps prickling my skin.
“Lucy? Are you okay?”
I jump, but it’s only Elise, our bright-eyed manager with green-streaked hair. We’re an eclectic bunch here at Café Tomé. She gives me a solid once-over as she strides in from the administrative office, a little too observant for her own good.
“I…um, I just puked in the bathroom.” I grab one of my shaking hands with the other. “I think I’d better head home.”
“Oh gosh. Please, go get some rest and some medicine.” Elise shuffles toward the front, waving at me. “We’ll hold down the fort here.”
God bless her.
As much as I hate the idea of going to therapy, anything’s better than suffering through Callum Kavanagh’s continual surveillance for the next four hours. Especially if dropping by the doctor’s office means more meds.
I remove my apron, retrieve my purse, and leave through the back door. As I disappear into the Manhattan streets, a little of the pressure eases from my chest.
I know my extreme reaction to my bodyguard’s presence isn’t entirely logical, but that self-awareness does little to resolve the issue. I may need protection, but I hate the idea of a man constantly hovering over me and telling me what to do…especially one who rubs me the wrong way.
For the majority of our lives, Maya and I had to fend for ourselves. Now, suddenly, I’m a delicate flower that requires supervision. I’ve survived for this long. I don’t need a guard dog.
Especially one who acts so…superior. Infuriating.
Hot.
For the first time today, Callum’s not breathing down my neck.
And imagining his reaction when he realizes I’ve vanished, well, that’s just the holistic mood boost I need.