Page 2 of Don't Speak

CHAPTER ONE

I wake with a jolt, my heart racing and my body covered in sweat. It’s just another nightmare .

Dragging myself out of bed, I shuffle my way to the bathroom and start the shower.

Simba, my orange Maine Coon, greets me with his demands for food.

“Alright, alright. Come on,” I tell him, walking toward the kitchen.

I quickly fill his bowl and return to the bathroom, climbing under the soothing hot water of the shower.

Instantly, I feel the tension leave my body.

Closing my eyes, I let the warmth envelop me.

Showers, for me, can go one of two ways.

Either they relax me and wake me up for the day to come, or I just get lost in here, a prisoner in my own thoughts. Luckily, today is the former.

Once I’ve finished my shower, I step out and grab a towel.

For a moment, I just stare into the mirror.

The bags under my eyes are getting bigger, no doubt from the lack of sleep I’ve been getting.

I’m exhausted, and it’s getting harder to recognize the person staring back at me.

I don’t know which is worse—the physical toll my body is taking or the psychological warfare occurring in my brain.

You’re dirty. Tainted. No one is going to want you.

My mahogany-brown hair falls to the middle of my back, and my lifeless emerald-green eyes stare back at me, my fair skin a stark contrast to the midnight-blue towel wrapped around me.

I don’t recognize the girl staring back at me and haven’t for quite some time.

Depression is a bitch . I was doing well for a bit, finally experiencing what it’s like having serotonin, but it all changed when I picked up the newspaper and saw him.

“Escaped Convict Still Missing,” the article read. Sean Edwards, 58, escaped from Huntsville State Prison two weeks ago, and authorities have yet to locate him. He may be armed. We urge the public to maintain their distance if found, but please call your local authorities to report the incident.

My heart sank when I saw his picture, and I had to fight off a panic attack.

My nightmares started back up that night, and I’ve had this odd feeling of being watched since.

Most of the time, I chalk it up to being paranoid.

There’s no way he would know where I am.

My social media accounts are private, and I try to avoid posting images that have identifiable buildings in the background.

Snapping myself back to reality, I remember that I don’t have to be at work until this afternoon, so I send a text to my best friend.

Me: Brunch this morning?

Amelia: When and where?

Me: 9 am, Cereal Killer Café.

Amelia: See you there.

Amelia and I have been best friends for eight years.

We met while working together at a veterinary clinic and haven’t gotten sick of each other yet.

She’s my person. The one I can talk to about anything, free of judgment.

Unless I am wrong about something. Then the heifer doesn’t hesitate to judge and call me out on it.

Swiftly getting ready, I throw on some clothes, blow-dry my hair, and put on some light makeup.

I decide to wear my ripped skinny jeans, Linkin Park tee, and black Vans today, choosing comfort as always.

It’s only 7:30 am, so I still have some time to kill.

Grabbing my current read, I plop down on the couch, snuggling under the nearest blanket.

Simba jumps up and curls up next to me, taking his first morning nap.

I’ve been having a hard time putting this one down.

It’s about three men, and one of them used to be a cop who may or may not kill people now, one of them is a cop, and the other one kills people for a living.

Well, only the shitty ones, that is. The banter is hilarious, and it even has this cute buffalo character.

It’s interconnected with another book that I’ve already read.

I loved that one just as much. It was about a mercenary and a mortician who both fell in love. So cute.

After getting through fifteen chapters, it’s time for me to head out.

Grabbing the keys to my Hyundai Santa Fe, I snatch my purse off the counter and give Simba his goodbye pets.

He loathes being touched, only wanting love on his own terms, but he occasionally tolerates chin scratches and head pets.

Whoever said that orange cats are just different wasn’t lying.

Walking out the door, I turn around to lock up and make sure the alarm system is set.

I moved into this house three years ago.

It’s a cozy two-bedroom, two-bath with an open floor plan.

The kitchen is beautiful, featuring a blue marble backsplash, white granite countertops, and an island in the center.

The selling factor, however, was the soaking tub in the primary bath.

That thing has gotten plenty of use since I moved in. It’s magical.

I make my way to the car, unlock it, and slide into the seat. I hardly ever leave the house, preferring the comfort of my own home, you know, away from people, but I need this time with my best friend, so I start up the car and head toward Cereal Killer Café.

Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling into the parking lot, and I can’t throw my car into park fast enough.

Amelia is waiting in her car, ever the antisocial bitch, but as soon as she sees mine, she gets out and walks toward me.

I may be biased, but my best friend is gorgeous.

She’s sporting a grunge tee, jean shorts, and a pair of Vans with her curly copper hair up in a clip and her green eyes nestled behind round-framed glasses.

It’s been a few weeks since we’ve gotten together; work often gets in the way, so I’m excited to spend time with her.

“Hey, buuuuddy,“ I say, greeting her as she approaches my car. The term of endearment became our thing years ago as part of an inside joke.

“Hey, dude!” Amelia responds, leaning in to give me a hug. Closing my car door, I lock it, and we head inside.

“You up for some bottomless mimosas?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“No. They’re disgusting,” she answers, exactly how I knew she would, following it with a shit-eating grin.

One thing to know about Amelia is that she is the queen of sarcasm. That’s probably why we get along so well. This café is one where we order at the counter rather than at the table, so we walk toward the cashier standing behind the terminal.

“Hello. Welcome to Cereal Killer Café. What can I get for you?” she asks with a bright, cheerful smile. Man, I wonder what it’s like to be that bubbly.

“Hello. Can I get the French toast platter with a side of sausage and grits?” I answer, already thinking about how good this food is going to be.

“And for you?” she asks, turning her attention to Amelia.

“I’ll have the waffle platter, add strawberries, with hash browns and sausage,” Amelia replies, pulling her card out like she is about to pay for a brunch I invited her to.

“Is there anything else I can get for y’all”? the cashier asks once more.

“We’ll do the bottomless mimosas as well, please, with orange juice and pineapple juice,” I tell her, digging into my purse to pull my wallet out. Turning to Amelia, I say, “Don’t you dare. I invited you, so this is my treat.”

The cashier gives us our total and asks if it will be cash or card, looking between both of us.

Before I even have my card out, Amelia is handing the cashier her card.

I don’t even know why I fight it anymore.

Amelia is just one of those friends who insists on paying for everything.

We’ve been doing this dance year after year.

It’s her love language, and I’ve given up.

Grabbing the number off the counter, Amelia and I walk over to the single booth up against the wall.

This place is cute. We’ve come here a few times because the food is great, and the bottomless mimosas are amazing.

It’s quaint, consisting of a couple of tables in the center, with one booth positioned against the wall on the far side of the building and another closer to the counter, which sits against the divider wall that separates the seating area from the counter.

There are various pieces of artwork on the wall, mostly consisting of pictures of the animals that produce the food we eat here and others of vintage cereals from over the years.

In addition, there is a wall strictly for serial killer enthusiasts.

You know, the true-crime junkies. Hence the name Cereal Killer. The owner is a lover of both.

“So, what’s new?” she asks, sliding into the side of the booth that has her back facing the front door. Call me weird, but I have this thing about facing the entrance when sitting down at restaurants. I guess I just like to be aware of who is coming and going.

“Nothing much. Same shit, different day. You know me, always working. The bar has been consistently packed, and we’ve had two bartenders walk out within a week.

They supposedly had a “better opportunity” elsewhere,” I say, making an air-quote gesture and rolling my eyes.

I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms.

“You know, you should follow their lead,” she says matter-of-factly.

Amelia, while the biggest support system, doesn’t like me working late nights at a bar filled with a bunch of drunk men.

She worries about my safety, and I can’t fault her for that.

She’s been encouraging me to pursue a career in writing, but I just haven’t made the leap yet.

Breaking out of my comfort zone scares me and gives me major anxiety, and anxiety is just not something I need more of right now.

The hostess arrives with our mimosas, placing the champagne bottle and juice bottles on the table before letting us know that our food will be out shortly and sauntering away.

“So,” I start, “what’s new with you?”

“Same as always. Work and then the comfort of my humble abode,” she replies, pouring the orange juice into the champagne she had already poured herself.

Amelia is a lot like me in the sense that she is also an introvert.

She prefers the company of herself and her dog.

And sometimes her husband. Don’t get me wrong, she loves the man dearly. It’s just a joke between us.

I pour myself a mimosa before looking around the café.

It’s not as busy as it normally is. There are a few patrons at the counter waiting to order.

Scanning the seating area further, I notice a man sitting alone with a cup of coffee, staring in our direction.

I can’t really make out all of his features from here, but he’s tall—like, really tall—wearing dark denim jeans and a white tee with tattoos painting his arms. He has a blue baseball cap on, which is strange since we are inside, and there is just something about him that seems… dark.

“Don’t make it obvious, but do you see that guy sitting over there alone by the emergency exit?” I ask Amelia, feeling a little uneasy. I immediately put my hands in my lap, rubbing them together.

Amelia pretends to stretch and crack her back by twisting her body while grabbing the back of the chair, doing her left side and then her right. I palm my face, shaking my head, because she’s clearly making it obvious.

Turning back to face me, she says, “Yeah, I see him. What about him?”

“He keeps looking over here. I don’t know, he just seems… off.”

As if he could hear us talking about him, he gets up from his seat, grabs his wallet and keys from the table, and walks past us and out the front door.

The smell of his cologne lingers in the air around us—the smell of bergamot and sandalwood.

It smells divine, and the air around me suddenly feels electrically charged.

The hairs on my arms stand, and I get lost in my thoughts, staring at the front door he just walked out of.

“Well, he seems fine to me. Looks like he just came for a cup of coffee. You’re being paranoid,” Amelia says, snapping me back to reality.

Shaking the weird feeling from my body, Amelia and I jump back into conversation, talking about all our favorite shows, upcoming concerts, and shooting the shit.

We’ve finished our meals and 2 bottles of champagne before I’ve even realized it.

Well, I should say she finished most of the champagne, considering I have to be at work in a few hours.

Gathering our belongings, we both leave the café, standing out front of the door.

“Same time next week?” Amelia asks, leaning in to give me a goodbye hug.

“Absolutely,” I tell her, returning the gesture.

We both go our separate ways, but the whole time I’m walking to my car, I can’t help but feel like I’m being watched.