Chapter 1 #3
It’s better this way, though, if Jenna’s as upset as I’m thinking she is. We can have some private time to talk things through, hopefully get her calmed down, and if she wants, maybe I can convince her to eat something after.
Assuming it’s about Greg, that is.
With each step I take towards the locker rooms, my curiosity grows greater. What else could it be besides Greg?
Unless.
Did she get fired?
The thought comes to me just as I reach the locker room door. Hand on the door handle, I freeze before opening it.
What if she got fired?
Could she?
Jenna’s a little scatterbrained, but I can’t imagine her doing anything bad enough to get fired for. And I haven’t heard anything about layoffs, not in my department at least.
After another moment’s thought, I put the idea aside.
No. It has to be Greg.
I turn the handle and push the door open while running through possible scenarios in my mind. Greg broke up with her. She caught him cheating. Or, God forbid, he turned violent and hurt her.
Setting my shoulders, I enter the locker room with my best you can tell me anything expression.
The room is arranged with an open space right when you enter, with a little wall sticking out to add extra privacy.
So when I first walk in, all I see is an empty counter—otherwise known as the emergency supply counter, where people will donate extra boxes of tampons, spare deodorant, and assorted toiletries.
Just past the dividing wall, I get a glimpse of a long row of lockers gleaming dully beneath the overhead lights.
And no sign of Jenna.
But if she’s crying, she would probably be in the back corner, where no one coming in could see her. As I move into the locker room, I pitch my voice low as I call out, “Jenna. Are you in here?”
She doesn’t respond. Or at least not loud enough for me to hear her.
“Jenna?” I walk around the divider wall to inspect the first aisle of lockers. But there’s no one. Not even a stray towel on the bench running between the lockers or a set of shoes beneath it.
I cock my head, angling my right ear in the direction of the showers. Still nothing.
A niggle of unease works into my belly.
“Jenna?” I raise my voice. “Are you here? Are you okay?”
Nothing.
My pulse jumps. The palms of my hands go clammy.
I haven’t felt this weird prickling sensation since that awful day in the hospital when the doctor gave us the news. I remember seeing his face and just knowing nothing would be the same again.
I’m getting the same feeling now.
“Jenna?”
I peer down the first aisle of lockers again, as if Jenna will magically appear from thin air.
When she doesn’t—shocker, there—I take a steadying breath and take a right towards the next aisle. “Jenna,” I repeat. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”
I pass the doors to the shower stalls and the toilets, my footsteps echoing in the seemingly empty room. I don’t hear the familiar thrum of the water running in the shower or the softer flow of the sinks in the bathroom.
My pulse speeds even faster.
“Jenna?” I round the corner, trying to prepare myself for anything. I reach into my purse to grab my phone, feeling slightly reassured by its weight in my hand.
I’m not sure why I feel so uneasy. I just do.
I start again, “Jen—”
But the first splatter of blood steals the rest of my voice.
No. Not splatter. Puddle.
And not just one puddle.
Several of them.
My gaze moves along the floor, cataloging each crimson pool.
I try to speak, but all that escapes is a dry click.
Why is there blood in here?
Why is there so much of it?
Everything feels as if it’s moving in slow motion. My feet. My eyes. My thoughts.
What happened in here?
Then.
My gaze moves to the far end of the lockers.
And I have my answer.
It’s Jenna.
Crumpled in a heap in the corner.
Covered in blood.
Surrounded by it.
Frantic, half-formed thoughts spin through my head.
What?
How?
Why?
When?
I’m frozen in indecision.
Do I run to her? Run away? Call for help?
What do I do?
A beat later, rational thinking kicks in.
She might be alive. I need to find out. Then call for help.
Decision made, I rush forward, just barely sidestepping a puddle of blood in my panic. “Jenna, can you hear me? Jenna. Please, Jenna, can you talk to me?”
I’m barely aware of the hot tears scalding my cheeks. Or of the cold sweat coating my body.
“Jenna.” Desperation laces my voice. I drop to my knees beside her motionless form. “Jenna!”
With a shaking hand, I reach for her wrist, one of the few parts of her not covered in blood.
When I touch her, her skin is still warm.
But it would have to be. She just texted me—
No.
She can’t be.
She can’t be dead.
I can’t feel a pulse, but I don’t know if it’s because she’s gone or if it’s because I’m shaking so badly.
My vision is a blur.
Call for help, a panicked voice shrieks in my head. Call for help. Now!
Yes. Get my phone. Call security. Call for help.
I yank my phone from my purse, but I’m so shaken, the stupid thing drops on the floor. Tears stinging my eyes, I reach for it again.
But before I can grab it, something catches hold of my shirt and jerks me backward.
No. Not something.
Someone.
Someone who smells of cheap cologne and coffee and cinnamon.
Someone who has a punishing grip on my shirt.
“You should never have gotten involved,” a slickly sinister voice says.
My heart stops.
I open my mouth to scream.
A hand palms the back of my head.
“Oh, no,” the man adds with a dark little chuckle. “I don’t think so.”
Then he slams my head into the side of a locker.
Pain explodes behind my eyes. Everything spins.
Before I can even try to fight back, he does it again.
The pain is blinding.
My body goes limp.
As my eyes flutter closed, he murmurs, “Too bad. You’re a pretty thing. But you should have stayed out of this.”
Out of what?
But it’s too late for the answer.
Too late for anything.
Darkness encroaches.
Then everything goes black.