Chapter 3
Holly
Now
The Fizzy Goblet
It takes me a while to get there (fuck you very much, New York MTA) but forty minutes later, I’m at Cami’s bar, pushing through the sweaty, gyrating crowd, trying to locate her.
How does it feel? Killing someone? The rapid thud, thud, thud of my heart gets louder with each step I take. Want me to show you?
I make it to the other side and my chest constricts when I spot Cami behind the bar.
She’s wearing a long-sleeved, maroon top and a pair of denim jeans.
Her long blonde waves are tied up in a ponytail and she’s busy making someone a drink.
It’s bright blue with hints of red. I remember that drink.
It’s the same one she had made for me the first time we met.
She glances in my direction, her mouth parting in surprise.
Relief loosens the fist around my heart, but like all good things in my life, it’s short-lived. I march towards her and jab a finger at her chest. “Not. Fucking. Funny.”
She eyes me up and down like she’s assessing me for something and deeming me unfit. “You’re wearing scrubs.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
She pours me a glass of wine, placing it on a napkin, sliding it towards me. “What do you mean?”
I unlock my phone and show her the text. “Why would you send me this?”
Her eyes skim over the screen. Her mouth does an open, close, open thing, acting all clueless and she shakes her head. “I-I didn’t send this.”
“Yes, you did.”
“This isn’t even my number. Why on earth would I send this to you?”
“To get me to come here.”
Her brows rise and more confusion ripples through her face, quickly transforming into hurt. Her gaze returns to the display of my phone screen. “Holly, that’s not even what I’m wearing right now.”
I look down. My stomach sinks. She’s right. Unlike the Cami standing in front of me, the Cami on my phone screen is wearing a dark blue crop top. When I look back up, Cami’s dark eyes sear into my face and I stick out my palm. “Show me your phone,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m serious, Camille.”
At first, her brows pull together and her gaze narrows. Then a second later, she laughs and says, “No.”
I don’t budge. I’m too fucking irritated to back down now.
Her lips curl and she finally pulls out her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and smacks it flat on my palm.
I type in her passcode and unlock the screen.
But the second I start scrolling through her messages, my stomach clenches, and the guilt sets in. There’s nothing on here.
“Find anything?” Cami snaps and I glance up as she wipes a strand of hair from her face.
I don’t understand. Cami didn’t send me the text?
She snatches back her phone. “I don’t know what’s going on with you tonight, but you don’t come to my bar and accuse me of sending you some creepy text message just to get you to hang out with me.”
“Cami —”
“I’m not that desperate.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
She just scoffs and storms off visibly pissed off to the far corner of the bar, away from me.
A lump thickens in my throat as I shrink into myself.
My fingers tangle in my lap, twisting and playing with the material of my scrubs.
I inwardly sigh, rolling my neck from the stress spearing into my muscles.
Sudden heat pricks the back of my neck, an unsettling feeling of being watched washing over. I turn around.
There’s no one there.
Of course, there isn’t. Why would there be?
“Oh, come on, baby. You’re so beautiful.”
I look to my right and see a man at the far end of the bar hitting on some woman who seems visibly put off by him. He touches her thigh. She pushes his hand off. He smiles and tries again.
Anger simmers within me as I drain the rest of my wine.
I grab my bag, weaving my way through the main area, heading down the hall towards the bathroom.
I step inside and look into the mirror. My hair is a knotted bird's nest, my skin is pale and clammy, my eyes are red, and my face is puffy.
I look like shit. Pushing my sleeves to my elbows, I splash ice-cold water on my face until my pulse slows to normal.
I wipe my face with a dry paper towel and pull out my phone to look at the messages again.
UNKNOWN: Roses are red, violets are blue, aren’t you glad I found you…
UNKNOWN: How DOES it feel? Killing someone?
UNKNOWN: Want me to show you?
My stomach tenses. Wait. Isn’t that what I said to Theo at the hospital?
How does it feel killing someone, Dr. Moore?
Devastating. Want me to show you?
Did…did he? No. No, why the hell would he send me this?
What would it even mean and how would he have gotten the picture of Cami bartending?
He doesn’t know her. Doesn’t even know we’re friends.
I step inside one of the empty stalls and rest my head against the cool surface of the door.
I close my eyes and count to ten. It’s okay.
It’s nothing. You’re probably just tired, that’s all.
Someone at the hospital must’ve overheard your conversation with Theo and decided to fuck with you. It doesn't mean anything.
I hear a faint buzzing sound. It’s so faint that it feels like it’s coming from deep within the walls of my own mind.
Like some sort of high-frequency humming.
Taking a deep breath, I step out to splash some more water on my face, when I spot a girl leaning against the sink. Weird. I didn’t hear anyone come in.
She’s wearing an oversized shiny wool overcoat and carrying a glittery blue purse. Her messy brown hair is pushed to one side, and she has an unlit cigarette lodged between her red, glossed-up lips, along with a lighter in her hand.
“You’re not allowed to smoke in here,” I tell her.
She glances at me and a prickling sensation dances across my skin. It’s the same woman from the hospital. The one I ran into. The one with the glittery clothes and pretty eyes. Brown with specks of gold in them. Though they don’t seem as frightened anymore.
Without taking her eyes off me, the strange girl lights the cigarette, breathes out a puff of smoke and waves it away with her hand. “Is there a Halloween party tonight I didn’t get the memo for?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your outfit.” She moves to give me access to the sink. “A little unconventional for a Saturday night out, don’t you think?” Despite her condescending question, her mellow tone sails through the air and has an immediate calming effect on my nerves. I’m not sure why.
“I’m a surgeon.”
“Ah.” The woman tilts her head, a flicker of something unsettling in her eyes. “Rough day at work?”
“No.” Yes.
“So, just desperate for a drink then?”
“Something like that.”
“Hmm. I’ve had a pretty shit day myself.
” She takes another puff of her cigarette.
The smoke swirls around her head before fading into nothingness.
She reaches for a strand of her hair in the mirror and her eyes meet mine in the reflection.
A brief flicker of emotion passes between us.
Then, with a deliberate exhale, she extinguishes the cigarette inside the sink, the awkward tension returning as she turns back to face me.
“I have some spare clothes in my bag, if you’d like. ”
I frown. Silence stretches between us. What the fuck is going on right now?
Mystery Girl takes a step forward. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to weird you out, but if you had a rough day at work, then the last thing you want is to be reminded of…” her voice trails off as she gives my scrubs a once-over, “…well, work.”
“Do you always carry spare clothes to bars and offer them to strangers?”
“You’re not a stranger. Plus, being resourceful is part of my charm. Well, that and I’m traveling. Just got to New York. Came here straight from the train station.”
My eyes narrow. She’s obviously lying. The question is why.
“So? A change of clothes?” she asks again.
“Uh, sure.” I ruffle through her bag, my fingers brushing against the soft cotton of her clothes and the coarse hair-like strands. I pull out a pair of denim jeans and a white cropped tee emblazoned with the words, STOP BEING POOR, sprawled across the front. “Thanks.”
Smiling, the girl zips up the bag, grabs her lighter and pack of cigarettes and side-steps around me towards the door. I push it open for her.
“Well, I hope you have a nice rest of the night,” she says, tipping her head in a small farewell.
“Yeah, you too — hey, wait!”
She turns around. “Yeah?”
“How do I give this back to you? The clothes.”
“We could exchange numbers?” The second those words leave her mouth, I’m reminded of the anonymous text messages. Mystery Girl must see the apprehension on my face. “Or I could just meet you here tomorrow. Does six p.m. work?”
I nod. It’s my day off tomorrow. Unless there are any emergency surgeries, I don’t have to go into work. “What’s your name?”
She manages a small smile. “Audrey.”
Audrey. “I’m Holly.”
Smile widening, she shakes my hand, the soft skin of her palm sending a distinct chill up my spine. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Holly,” she says and then disappears into the crowd.
The bathroom door creaks shut, the sound echoing in the tiled space.
I touch the inside of my palm that’s still tingling from Audrey's touch.
I turn to look at myself in the mirror, my reflection staring back at me with weary eyes.
The white top hangs over my arm, its vibrant hue clashing with the stark black of the bathroom tiles.
Taking a deep breath to calm the uneasiness in my stomach, I enter an empty stall to change my appearance, instantly feeling better as the soft material of the white tee falls over my shoulders.
Her clothes smell nice. Daffodils paired with a hint of vanilla.
Adjusting the front to smooth out any wrinkles, I put on my jeans and wig, grab my stuff, and head back out.
As I burst out of the bathroom, I collide with someone, sending a glass full of whiskey flying and drenching my white T-shirt.