Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
GRACE
The bright morning light streams through the open curtains and tickles my eyelids, rousing me from a deep, dreamless sleep. I struggle to open my eyes, and when I do, I have to lie there for several minutes, blinking away the film coating my vision and blurring the ceiling.
What the hell happened last night?
My head pounds as I sit up, the dull pressure followed by a searing pain in my rib cage. I reach a hand up to my face, wincing at the feel of hot, swollen skin. The events of last night slowly come back to me, flashing in my mind like a fucked-up slideshow of horrors.
The men, Red 7. The needle in my neck, and everything going dark.
I shift, and a sharp pain in my ass makes me hiss—one I have no explanation for. I throw the covers off and am frozen by the sight of my pajama set. I definitely didn’t put these on last night…
Swallowing hard, I get out of bed and head to the floor-length mirror in my bedroom. My trembling fingers grip the waistband of my shorts, and I pull them down to inspect the soft skin beneath.
Please be a bruise…
But it’s not. The reality is far worse than anything I could have imagined. A tattoo. The number seven, lined in bloodred, circled in a heart, so that the number looks like a break.
I’ve seen this exact mark on the news dozens of times. It’s the mark Red 7 leaves on all his victims. And now it’s inked into my skin for all eternity.
My throat constricts as I desperately try to wipe it away even though I know logically that’s not how these things work. The tattoo is real, just like all the terrible things that happened last night. I’m not going to wake up from this nightmare.
“This is so not good.” My vision tunnels. “Really fucking not good.”
Red 7 is the one who took me home last night. The one who cleaned my wounds and dressed me in my pj’s. The one who marked me for life.
The only thing I don’t understand is why. Why would he save me? Why bring me home and take care of me? Why not just kill me like all the others?
I gaze around my bedroom, my eyes snagging on the open closet door. Is he still here with me now?
After a quick peek inside, some of my fear is assuaged, but it doesn’t take away the mounting sense of dread.
Even though he’s not in my apartment right now, he knows where I live.
He was able to get me inside, which means he can come back any time he wants.
And what will happen to me then? Who will save me?
Knowing I should contact the police, I pull out my cell phone and dial the emergency line, where I’m promptly put on hold. A few minutes later, the call drops. I try three more times before giving up, left with nothing but a lump in my throat and the unbearable weight of helplessness.
I stare numbly at my phone screen, my thumb hovering over my best friend’s number. Saffron would absolutely want to know about what happened last night. In fact, I might be in trouble if I keep it from her much longer.
But first, I need to call in to work.
Thankfully, it’s Friday, so I’ll have the whole weekend to recuperate from my injuries. If all goes well, I’ll be able to walk into the office like nothing ever happened by Monday morning.
But it did happen. It happened, and I’m still alive. Why?
Visions of a blood-spattered mask fill my mind, and I have to physically shake my head to get it to disperse. Focus. I have things to do before I allow myself to break.
Fingertips shaking, I dial my supervisor, making up some excuse about food poisoning and saying I’ll be back at the office on Monday.
She wishes me a swift recovery and hangs up.
The monotone drone of the dial tone alleviates some of my anxiety, but not enough to make a difference in my mental state.
Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I call up Saffron. It rings once before her sleep-cracked voice rings through the speakers, though she sounds less than thrilled to be hearing from me at this hour.
“Grace?” she murmurs. “What’s wrong?” There’s a shuffling sound as she sits up in bed, a yawn, and then, “Why aren’t you at work?”
I clutch the phone tighter, finding a spot on the wall and staring hard as moisture wells in the corners of my eyes. I’m not even sure where to start. “Something bad happened.” I take a deep breath, hoping I can get the next part out. “Can you come over?”
“I’m already in my car,” she says. “Are you at your apartment?”
Despite everything, a tiny smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “I am. Thank you, Saf.”
She snorts. “When I kill the fucker who hurt you, you can thank me.”
I shiver as images of the crime scene from last night flash in my mind. “That’s already been handled.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head even though she can’t see me, fighting to swallow the ball of anxiety forming in my throat. “We’ll talk more when you get here.”
She sighs, but doesn’t argue, sensing my desperation. “Okay,” she says. “Be there in thirty.”
I sit wild-eyed and shivering on the kitchen floor, clutching a steak knife to my chest.
I’ve had panic attacks in the past, but none as severe as the one Saffron finds me in when she walks through the door. True to her word, she arrived in under thirty minutes—but it was more than enough time for the shock to take hold of my system.
As soon as I hung up, the shaking began. It was followed closely by a loud ringing in my ears, which made the room spin so badly I had to curl into a ball on the floor. My windpipe closed, and my vision tunnelled. Soon, I was left in the dark with nothing but my racing thoughts.
“Oh, babe.” Her honeycomb eyes widen in horror. “What happened?”
She races over, not giving me time to answer before she crouches to the floor and wraps her arms around me in a motherly embrace. It calms me and allows me to take deep, even breaths, and with each one, I’m further grounded by her hug.
After several long minutes, she pulls back, looking deep into my eyes. Her hands slide down to mine, and she gently works the knife from my grip.
“It’s okay, Grace. You can let go. I’m here—you’re safe.”
Am I, though?
My gaze swings wildly around the room, certain I’ll find Red 7 stepping out of the shadows to finish me off. To fulfill his promise.
I’m brought out of my dark thoughts when Saffron curls her delicate hands around my face, prodding gently with the tips of her fingers. “Does that hurt?”
I wince slightly as she brushes the fresh cut at the corner of my lip. “A little.”
She hums, her brows creasing in concern. “I don’t think anything is broken. Just swelling and a couple of nasty cuts.” Her gaze lowers to the arm clutching my ribs. “How’s your breathing?”
“Hurts,” I say between gritted teeth. “I definitely cracked a rib or two. No need to poke me there.”
Saffron frowns, sliding her hands down to my shoulders. “You should let me take you to the hospital.”
“And pay a grand so someone can give me a pill and tell me to ‘take it easy for a couple of weeks’?”
Saffron is unable to hide her grimace. “Still. It would be good to get checked out. You could be bleeding internally or something.”
I snort. “You’ve been watching too much Vital Anatomy, Saf. I’m fine—just a little banged up.”
“Yeah, well, my friend knew this guy—Brock James—he came in for an infected toe and died from internal bleeding. It could happen to anyone.”
I level her with a deadpan stare. “Brock James is the actor who died in the last episode, isn’t he?”
She waves me off. “That hardly matters. The point is, it would make me feel a lot better if you got looked at. I’m really worried about you, Grace.”
“Fear mongering straight into a guilt trip? Bold choice.” I reach out to give her hand a squeeze. “I appreciate you looking out for me and caring, but I’m fine. I promise.”
“You don’t look fine,” she mutters.
“I just need the weekend to rest and some greasy pizza, and I’ll be good as new.”
Saffron hums, her brow pinching as she looks off to the side, deep in thought. I’ve seen the expression countless times before, and I know she’s currently thinking of the worst-case scenario—losing me.
Saffron and I have been best friends since the day I stumbled into the Black Orchid Lounge at seventeen, broke, depressed, and desperate for a fresh start.
I had grown up in the foster system, born to parents in active addiction and given up before being passed from home to home.
A few weeks after my sixteenth birthday, my foster mother died, and her husband was in no state to care for me and the other three kids living there.
The others were young enough and able to be placed with new families, but I was sent to live in a group home.
It was fine for a while—until it wasn’t.
After a few weeks of living in the home, some of the other kids began noticing me, and not in a good way.
Growing up, I always looked older than I really was, which led to many unwanted interactions and lewd comments—practically all with and from men.
In addition to looking older, I was naturally curvy, bustier than most of my peers.
I tried to hide my body as best I could, but no matter what I did, I found myself on the receiving end of that attention I despised.
Despite my efforts, the teenage boys in the home noticed, and a few of them even became bold enough to comment.
Those comments turned to shameless leering, which led to the touching.
I tried to get it to stop, to make someone help me, but they never did.
It got so bad that one day, I had enough, and I had to get out of there.
I left in the dead of night, taking with me only what I could carry in my backpack. I slipped out the window and hitched a ride across state lines, stopping only when I was in the heart of Moriton—a city so vast and chaotic, no one would find me even if they came looking.