Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
CHAPTER 39 Now
When I blink awake, I’m not in bed.
Not even on the couch.
Disoriented, I roll onto my back, only to feel the press of cold, hard tile beneath my shoulder blades.
The bathroom. I spent the night in the bathroom again. Overhead, the bright bulbs over the sink all but blind me. I push to sitting, and then, with one hand on the edge of the counter, pull myself all the way up.
Big mistake.
My vision tilts. I lower myself back to the floor as my stomach threatens to empty itself. Something smells. Me? I smell, and I smell horrible. The remnants of already vomiting, of perhaps not making it to the toilet on time. I exhale, and hot tears stain my cheeks. I feel like one of my wineglasses, fragile, like I could shatter into a million pieces.
I try to climb to my feet again, desperate for water to quench my dry mouth, to get the acrid flavor of bile out of my teeth. I rinse, spit, and take big gulps of cool water. Eventually, I turn the faucet off and look up to meet my gaze in the mirror.
Jesus Christ.
I barely recognize myself. Smeared makeup, blotchy skin, hair awry. I’m pretty sure the speckles over my sweater are vomit. I turn the shower on hot, not bothering to strip before I step in. The burning water temperature makes me gasp, but I let it get to the point that it’s unbearable before I turn it down a notch. Then I strip and reach for a body sponge, adding eucalyptus bodywash and slowly scrubbing every inch of myself.
I’m disgusting.
And I’m disgusted with myself.
Somewhere in the midst of trying to make myself feel clean again, normal again, I suddenly remember.
Last night. Wine. Sarah.
I told her everything.
And she said… I gulp back another round of nausea threatening to spill forth. She said she saw Rebecca following me. I lean on the wall, the shower beating down on me, considering the implications. Considering the relationship she must have had with Gabriel. The fact he’s been stalking me. Or she has. Or maybe both of them.
I scrub at my face until it hurts.
Eventually, I turn off the water. Somewhere in my apartment, my phone chimes, then chimes again. Then a third time. I tense with each notification, heart rate climbing and climbing, wondering who’s so desperate to get a hold of me. I wrap myself in a towel—a towel that smells, that needs to be washed. I toss it on the ground and open the linen closet to grab a fresh one. But it’s empty. My pulse climbs higher. I don’t even have a clean towel. I retrieve the dirty one and wrap it around my body, pondering what else I’ve forgotten to do. What else I’ve missed in this haze I’ve been living in.
My phone is hidden between couch cushions. The only reason I find it is that another text comes through. I breathe with relief when I see who it is—Sarah, checking on me. She’s already sent two messages.
Sarah: Good morning, sunshine. I wanted to check in after our late evening. Are you up?
And then
Sarah: Listen, I’m a little worried. Be careful, okay? Call me if you need anything.
I quickly tap out a response, hating that I’ve made her worried when she’s been so kind to me.
Meredith: All is well. Thanks for everything last night.
Then I swipe to my email.
There are two from Gabriel.
Both empty, except for the subject line.
The first one reads:
We need to talk.
The second came in ten minutes later:
I’m serious. Call me.
In my head, his words are not kind. Are not a polite ask. They’re a curt demand. Sarah’s warning comes back to me. She’s worried. She thinks I need to be careful.
I realize, I think I do, too. And it’s time to do something about it.
* * *
“Detective Green, please.”
The officer at the front desk looks at me over her glasses. “Name?” she asks. “And what’s this about?”
“Meredith McCall.” And because the woman shows no recognition of the name, I add, “Connor Fitzgerald’s wife.”
At that, her eyes widen. “Take a seat, please. I’ll see if he’s available.”
I pick a chair in the corner, putting my back to the wall. A second after I sit, I realize it’s a defensive posture. Something I watch for in my patients. My eyes linger on the door. I watched behind me the whole walk here, keeping an eye out for Gabriel, for Rebecca. I glance down at my phone, and he’s emailed again. Just a subject line, like before.
Can I come over?
I tense and look up, hoping to catch sight of Detective Green. A clock ticks above the front desk, that same tick-tick-tick of my old clock. For the briefest moment, I can understand how my patients become delusional. How they start to think even a clock is out to get them. My breath shudders as I exhale and turn away from the damn thing. I wish the detective would just get here already.