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“Good,” he grinds out.

“Happy?” I snap.

“Yes!”

Our gazes lock in an angry battle. It lasts ten seconds before we grin and succumb to laughter.

I nudge his shoulder. “I’m going to bed. Wanna come?”

He groans. “Fuck you, Goldie.”

I waggle my eyebrows. “That’s the offer.”

Chuckling, he turns away. “I like you too much to have sex with you,” he throws over his shoulder.

“Hey, that’s my line!”

His laughter fades as he rounds the corner of the cabin. When I hear the open and close of his door, I relax against the wall, still warm from the heat of the day.

My body hums with the need for sleep, but my head spins like a carnival ride. Complete with disorientation and nausea.

Since my session this morning, all I can think about is the accident I can’t remember. I spent hours holed up in my cabin, skipping lunch to piece together the months of 2016.

I have a vague recollection of a Christmas party, then New Year’s. In February, I caught Kevin cheating and left his dumb ass. The next event I remember is white water rafting with some friends in June.

Between March and mid-June, there’s nothing.

Nothing.

11

SMOKE AND MIRRORS

DAY 10

It must be after midnight by the time I rouse myself from the void of questions in my mind. The night is darker than before, the moon nearly set, and the air temperature almost classifies as chilly.

Hugging my arms to my chest, I shuffle around Callum’s cabin toward mine. My sneakers scuff against fine gravel and the occasional larger rock.

I’m five steps from my door when I hear a feminine squeal. Freezing mid-step, I strain my ears for a repeat of the sound, and when it doesn’t come, I tell myself I imagined it.

Then it happens again. This time, the squeal is followed by a low moan. Eyes scanning the cabins, I see only one with light shining behind the curtains.

Kinsey’s.

My limbs tingle. Like an automaton, I turn and walk past Callum’s cabin, Nix’s now vacant one, and come to a stop.

“Please, please, please…”

The low chant reaches my ears through the partially open door.

Why is the door open?

Driven by a need to know if my worst assumption is true, I tiptoe to the narrow swath of light. I’m sure my heart is pounding, but I can’t feel it. All I feel is the overwhelming compulsion to know.

I have a clear view of the bed and Dr. Chastain’s back. Beneath him, Kinsey thrashes and moans. I barely notice they’re both clothed. I just see him. On top of her.

Then Kinsey whimpers. “Please don’t make me. Please, I don’t want to, I don’t want to…”