29. Chapter 29
The calendar had flipped to November, but Pennsylvania hadn't bothered waiting for the transition for Autumn to Winter. With one last Halloween spirit, I had attempted to distract myself with a horror movie, but the fictional blood on the screen felt too mundane, too detached from the reality of my own life, and I’d shut it off halfway through.
November announced its arrival with a heavy blanket of snow.
My lips still felt swollen and plump, tingling with the ghost of a kiss from the Jester during my shift that morning.
Once again, he had pulled me into the shadows of the prison, a breathless, high-stakes encounter that left my nerves lit and my body humming with a dangerous arousal.
But the heat of his touch couldn't melt the cold dread that followed me everywhere else.
To burn off the chaotic, electric energy buzzing under my skin, I drove to the local indoor shooting range.
For two hours straight, the world narrowed down to the steady weight of the grip in my hands and the deafening roar of heavy metal blasting through my noise-canceling headphones.
The thudding bass and screaming guitars matched the rhythm of my heart.
I loaded magazine after magazine, staring down the paper silhouette at the end of the lane.
The recoil shocked up my arms, a grounding, physical pain that forced the phantom sensation of the Jester's lips from my mind.
I tore through the paper targets, putting bullet after bullet directly into the center of the target until the brass casings cluttered the floor around my boots and my shoulders ached from the tension.
By the time I got back to my apartment, the adrenaline had faded, leaving behind a hollow, icy exhaustion.
I didn't bother turning on the lights. I poured a glass of cheap whiskey, drank it straight to dull the lingering ache in my chest, and retreated beneath the heavy layers of my covers. The apartment was suffocatingly quiet.
Emma was still ignoring me.
Three days ago, swallowed by guilt and the sickening realization of how pathetic I must have seemed to her, I had finally swallowed my pride and texted her.
I’m sorry about the other night, I’d written, my fingers trembling over the screen. I have a lot of things going on right now. I shouldn't have snapped.
The messaging app told the brutal truth: Read.
But no ellipsis ever appeared.
No bubble popped up.
Emma never responded.
Staring at the glowing screen in the dark bedroom, the final, crushing truth settled over me like the snow outside. The charity case had finally become too draining to keep tabs on.
Emma was gone, and as I pulled the blankets tighter around my shoulders, I realized I was truly, completely alone.
A sharp, persistent vibration against the nightstand dragged me out of a heavy, dreamless sleep.
I blinked against the aggressive morning light cutting through the blinds, my eyes gritty and my head throbbing from the whiskey–per usual. I fumbled for my phone in the dark, the screen blinding me.
10:00 AM.
It was my day off, and normally, I’d pull the covers over my head and sleep until noon just to escape the silence of the apartment. I swiped the screen, my voice thick with sleep.
"Hello?"
"Is this Elara?" a brisk, gravelly voice asked over a wave of static.
"Yes, speaking."
"This is Jane. I'm a hiring agent for Ridgeport Motor Lodge. I was looking over your application for the night-shift cleaning position. Are you available to come in for an interview today? Say, one o'clock?"
The sheer speed of the offer jolted me entirely awake. The Ridgeport Motor Lodge was the notoriously dingy spot on the edge of town—the kind of place with flickering neon signs and a revolving door of sketchy clientele.
But it was a job that didn't involve literally risking my life with prisoners.
"Yes," I sat up straight and threw the blankets off my legs. "Yes, absolutely. I can be there at one o'clock."
"Great. See you then. Oh, and please bring an ID."
The line went dead.
I lowered the phone, staring at the blank screen as the dial tone faded.
For the first time in weeks, the heavy, suffocating pressure in my chest loosened just a fraction.
It wasn't a guarantee, and it certainly wasn't glamourous, but as I swung my feet out of bed and felt the cold floorboards beneath my toes, a tiny, unfamiliar spark flared in my chest.
An ounce of hope.
Maybe I wasn't trapped after all.