14. Clara
CLARA
LOVELY
Most people lock their doors at night and turn off all the lights before going to bed. And most people fall asleep in absolute darkness or with a guiding light plugged into an outlet.
That used to be me.
But I’m not most people anymore.
Shadows taunt me in the dark. It doesn’t matter if the shadows are cast by moonlight, a nightlight, or the bathroom light—the dancing silhouettes twist and stretch across every surface. They taunt me, tease me, cause me to lose precious hours of sleep.
Sleep is hard to come by as it is. Every time I close my eyes, I’m back with him.
There’s no reprieve.
No escape.
God, I’m so tired . All I wanted was to move past this. I wanted to move on with my life and dive back into normalcy. I didn’t want his depravity to change everything—to change me.
Yet nothing is the same, and it’s really messing with my psyche.
I check the locks no less than thirty times each day, and not just before I go to bed.
I check them all the time; it’s become an obsession.
Whenever I pass a window, I stop to make sure it’s locked and sealed tight.
The curtains are always closed with the blinds pulled down and tilted inward.
Every interior door remains open; I need to be able to see inside each room at any moment.
Once upon a time—like, three weeks ago—I used to revel in the dark. The only lights I’d have on in the house were single lamps. But now? Darkness is no longer a comfort. The entire apartment has to be lit up like the Vegas strip at midnight.
I haven’t stepped outside. Hell, I don’t think I’ve even opened the door—except to let Tamara in or to grab the groceries that were ordered online. The last time I breathed in fresh air was when I walked from Maverick’s car to the apartment seven days ago.
By some miracle, I still have a job at The Pour House. Ronnie, the owner, has been surprisingly understanding and patient. She says I can return whenever I’m ready.
I’m not ready yet—I’m nowhere near ready. I can barely function.
A sudden chime from my phone makes my heart skip a beat. I’ve never been this jumpy, but every sound crashes against my nerves, making my pulse stutter.
Maverick
Hey sunshine. Just checking in.
Clara
I’m ok. Tamara’s coming by in a bit to keep me company.
Maverick
I’m here if you need anything.
Clara
I know, thank you.
Maverick checks in with me every day. I’m shocked that I miss him—his stalwart presence.
I wish he’d come over, but I’m too afraid to ask.
I don’t want to appear needy, and he’s already done so much for me.
He practically lived in my hospital room until I was discharged.
I’m sure he has mountains of work to catch up on.
It isn’t his problem that I’m afraid of my own shadow.
A scream claws its way up my throat until it feels as though I’m going to suffocate.
I shoot straight up in bed, throwing the covers off my sweat-soaked body. My clothes are drenched with fear, clinging uncomfortably to my skin. I can’t recall what woke me, but my breathing is ragged and my body is trembling as if I’m still caught in the nightmare.
How much longer can I do this? I collapse into quiet, shuddering sobs, wishing I had someone here with me. Pull yourself together, Clara. You’re stronger than this. Taking a deep breath, I try to do what my head is telling me to do: get it together.
I glance at the clock on the nightstand, the neon glow revealing it’s two in the morning.
Three hours of sleep. Well, that’s an improvement.
Ugh, I need a shower.
Leaving the bed, I step over the blanket that was thrown onto the floor and make my way into the fully lit bathroom.
As usual, I ignore the mirror and walk straight to the shower.
One day, when I test the temperature with my hand, I won’t think of him and the way he did this, too.
Nausea swirls in my stomach, forcing me to swallow down the bile threatening to escape.
It’s just a shower, Clara. And no one is here. No one is watching.
Without removing my clothes, I step inside and close the glass door.
The steam envelops me completely as I slide down the tile wall, positioning myself directly beneath the shower spray.
I pull my legs to my chest and lock my arms around them, then rest my chin on my knees and stare blankly at the swirling water running down the drain.
I just need to sit here for a moment and try to fit the broken pieces of me back together.
The water is cold by the time I step out of the shower, but I’m clean and feeling refreshed. I dry myself off and drape the soft, fluffy fabric around me, using another towel to twist my hair into place.
I’m still rubbing the lotion into my arms when I walk into my bedroom, aiming for the dresser next to the window. From my periphery, I notice how inviting the bed looks: the comforter is made, the pillow is fluffed. It looks so cozy; I can’t wait to get in once I’m dressed.
I freeze, every muscle locking into place.
The comforter is made.
But that’s impossible. It was on the floor. I distinctly remember stepping over it after throwing it off the bed.
I frantically look around the room, my eyes as wide as saucers.
Nothing else appears out of place.
I bolt to the dresser, throwing on the first shirt and leggings I can find. I nearly trip over my feet as I sprint to the nightstand to snatch my phone, then hightail it into the bathroom. The door slams shut with a deafening bang.
A barricade. I need a barricade.
Turning the lock into place, I pivot and push the vanity against the door. I struggle with its weight but adrenaline fuels me.
As soon as the door is barred, I run into the shower stall and attempt to call Maverick. My fingers are trembling uncontrollably, and it takes longer than it should to find his name and press call.
One ring.
Two rings.
Please pick up.
Three rings.
Please, Maverick. Pick up the fucking phone.
Four rin— “Clara?” His voice is gravelly with sleep, but I hear the blankets shift as he sits up. “What’s going on?”
“Maverick.” I keep my voice hushed, worried the person who came into my apartment uninvited and made my bed might hear me. “Someone’s been in my apartment.”