Page 91 of Lost Lyrebird

Every so often, I shoo a small bug away from my reading light.Yeah, I could go inside to avoid them, but I’m enjoying the tranquility the night brings and the bright sparks of lightning that flash across the sky while I read an article about Anglomania, the mix of tradition and anarchy in English style.

One of the things I missed the most about New Mexico was the beautiful storms and the never-ending sky.The entire city seems to go quiet on nights like this, and I find it peaceful.

It’s a simple joy that’s interrupted when Goose exits his front door.He’s dressed for stealth—a black hoodie and tactical pants.There’s a large duffle bag in his hand.His wariness is apparent as he scans his surroundings before getting into his Roadrunner, which now appears black at night, but is actually painted a charcoal gray color with white pinstripes.

After flipping my blanket off my legs, I head inside to throw on a quick disguise, grab a few supplies, and my keys.

I have a link to access the GPS tracker I placed on his vehicle, so I’m not too worried.But my shitty sedan isn’t as fast as my beamer, which is currently in storage.I do my best to catch up without breaking too many traffic laws.

Worry fills me ten or so minutes later when his movements stop.I’m about two miles out, so I curse every red light on my way, and slam the pedal down when they eventually turn green.

I hit the empty parking garage, and search for his car.I find it on the second level.The garage is near the mall and theater, so for a moment I tell myself there’s a good chance he’s indulging in a late-night movie.He’s an action flicks junkie, and particularly loved the ones with convoluted plots and surprise endings, the kind you’d have to watch twice to catch all the clues.

Way back when, I remember how blown away he’d been when I told him I’d never seenIndiana Jones.He went out that night and rented every single one in the series, a shitload of candy, and we spent an entire night watching them back to back.

So I settle in, preparing for a long, boring wait.As I sit there, something about the duffle nags at me.Pulling out my phone, I call the theater and check the current show listings.When nothing fits the kind of movie he’d be down for, a restless feeling begins to creep along my spine.

I’m missing something.

I can sense it, and this puts me on high alert.

A few minutes pass before I reverse out of the parking spot.I go up one level and continue to scan the garage.An older Jeep Cherokee comes toward me.It’s dark green, and at first, I nearly dismiss it, but the man behind the wheel, the one wearing a beanie, has visible silver hair beneath, and his hands are littered with tattoos.Goose.

When he turns the corner, I quickly do a U-turn.I let him gain some distance and tail him.

My fingers clench around the steering wheel as we enter the more derelict parts of town.Unease fills me.Being here brings back many unpleasant memories.

I barely survived these streets.At seventeen, I’d been desperate for help, dying for a way out.It was a cage I thought I’d never escape.Every day was a spin of the roulette wheel.The chance of being killed by a John I had the rotten luck of getting into a car with, or from one of the punishments Veno delivered when I didn’t pull in enough cash or perform to his standards—was a real possibility.

The day the police raided the hotel where Veno kept me and the other girls still haunts me.I’d been beaten black and blue for defying him that day, and that very hotel sits at the end of this street.

In a way, it was also the first day of this new life I’m living.Not just because I made it out, but because it was the day Goose found me hiding in the closet under a blanket.

Based on what he’d told me, he’d had a personal vendetta against the 13Ds.They’d broken into his home while he’d been on his last tour of duty.They’d used it as a temporary meth lab.When he’d come home to say his goodbyes to his father, who lay dying in a care facility, Goose discovered two men cooking this shit in his house and had made it his personal mission to send the people responsible to prison.Joey, his best friend on the force, helped him.Goose surveilled the 13Ds for weeks and turned all the evidence he’d gathered on them over to his friend, who then organized the raid and brought a SWAT team to clean out the building that night and arrest Veno.

I’d managed to hide.The last thing I wanted to do was be sent back home and be at my stepfather’s mercy again, not after what I’d already gone through.

Goose found me.When that closet door opened, he was there, crouched down and peering in at me from the other side.

The days leading up to that night were some of the most harrowing moments of my life.The memories hit me like a Mack truck barreling through a barricade, and the wall I’ve put up surrounding that part of my past breaks apart as if made of dust.My breathing gets difficult.The air feels thick and becomes harder to pull into my lungs.

Reaching over, I search through my purse for my inhaler.When I come up empty, I yank the bag into my lap and look again.I switch on the overhead light as I search for that chunk of plastic that always takes up a good portion of space in my purse.I upend the contents onto my passenger seat and scour through them, but the sinking pit in my stomach tells me what my subconscious already knows.

It’s not here.

“Shit!Motherfuck.”I slam my palm repeatedly onto the steering wheel and bite my lip.Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.

I used it earlier today when I got stung.Scorpions are no joke in New Mexico.I had antivenom on hand, but it still caught me off guard and freaked me out.So even though I had my preventative inhaler in the bathroom cupboard, I used my emergency inhaler from my purse to fight off the panic attack I felt coming on.

And it’s now sitting on my kitchen counter.

It’s fine.Just focus on your breathing.In for three.Hold.Out for three.

A therapist in California I used to see believed my panic attacks, or “anxiety disorder” as she liked to call it, stemmed from a fear of not being able to breathe and from childhood trauma.She reasoned that suffering from asthma attacks without the proper care or medication for so long as a child, and the physical demands I’d been under during that time—the rigorous training for competitions and pageants—combined with not only the abuse, but with such high expectations placed on me, could all be a factor.

Which was something I’d already reasoned out myself.

But she did give me some valuable advice.She’d been the first doctor to recommend I learn some natural breathing techniques, coping skills, and preventative measures.That I needed to learn how to recover from an episode and not always rely on my inhaler.