Page 90 of The Night Shift

“Yeah, sure. Do you want something to drink? They have coffee and some brown sludge vaguely resembling tea.”

Audrey’s smile is a lot more genuine this time. “I’m good. I can’t stay that long. I’m visiting family and…can we please sit and talk?”

I spot an empty table in a secluded corner by the window. We settle down in our seats and the murmur of voices and clatter of trays create a physical bubble of white noise around us.

“So, what’s up?” I ask, taking a sip of my cappuccino. Dammit, I forgot to put sugar.

I hear Audrey inhale a deep breath before she says, “I want to help you.”

“Help me?”

Audrey’s gaze bores into my skull like a laser, the smell of disinfectant and bleach clinging to us like a second skin. Her voice is softer now. She leans forward. “With the messages.”

I frown. “What are you talking about?”

“Holly, I know about the messages. I want to help.”

At first, I don’t get it. What messages? She must see the confusion on my face as she reaches across the table, her hand cold and surprisingly strong on mine. “Roses are red, violets are blue, aren’t you glad I found you?”

My stomach clenches with nausea.

I yank my hand back and force myself to stand up. Words fail me. How…how the hell does she know about that? Unease stabs through the numb fog in my head and another — more concerning — question moves to the forefront of my brain.What else does she know?

Her eyes dart around the room again. “Please sit, people are looking —”

“Is it you?” I ask. My voice is tinged with anger. It all makes sense now. The bathroom. The spare outfit. The showing up at my place of work. I had a hunch from the start. I should have trusted it.

“It’s not me, but I know who it is.”

This is fucking absurd! “Okay, so tell me.”

“I can’t,” she says, and the tube light flickers again.

“Why not?”

“Because it doesn’t work like that. I can’t just tell you who it is. I have to help you figure it out on your own. Iwantto help you figure it out.”

Have to help me? “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Nate Lawson. How much do you really know about him?”

The cut on my palm turns into a gaping wound, raw and exposed. I feel a pinch in my gut. The blood pounding in my ears falls silent and for two seconds I forget every word I’ve ever known. How does she know who Nate is?

“What about Sid?” Her tone is harsher this time. Like she’s interrogating me. “How much do you know about him? Have you spoken to him at all about this? Has he reached out at all?”

Sid? What the fuck does this have to do with him? The last time I saw Sid was almost a decade ago. It was a few months after Aanya died. I don’t remember much, which I suppose, is a “coping mechanism.” I can forget just about anything. It’s a real talent. Whole chunks of my early twenties are gone because of it. My therapist used to say that they are recoverable. But some things are meant to stay lost.

Audrey keeps looking at me, expecting some sort of answer and I fight the urge to break something and throw it at her face. I need to get out of here. I need to get out of here before I explode or vomit or explode in a cloud of vomit. “You need to leave,” I say.

“Holly, I’m trying to help you.”

My eyes flash up to hers. “I’ve had my fair share of people trying to help me in the past few days. I do not need your fucking help.”

“You need to talk to Nate Lawson —”

“Don’t ever say that name again.”

“You don’t understand. You need to listen to me.”