Page 4

4

I MIGHT BE LOSING IT

QUINN

It’s nearly pitch black in my room when something wakes me from a dead sleep. The only light is a sliver peeking through the closed window shutter; a faint glow cast by the sidewalk light outside.

I pull myself from my sleepy haze and I feel the weight of someone boring a hole through my flesh with their gaze… which is impossible because I am alone.

I fumble for the lamp on my worn, wooden nightstand and yank the chain. The bulb flickers weakly before dimming to nothing.

The thought enters my mind that maybe the eyes I constantly feel are actually there and not a figment of my overactive imagination; that whoever fucked my dad’s shit up might have their sights set on me now.

It would be just like him to drag me into his shit from the grave, though I don’t know what reason anyone would have for taking it to that level now that he’s not around to feel the hurt of it.

Not that he would have—hurt over the loss of me, that is.

Fumbling in the darkness, my fingers wrap around my phone at the same time the door swings open, causing my heart to come out of my throat.

Kruz flips on the light switch, her long dark curls bouncing around her petite frame. “Why are you already in bed?” She’s nonchalant, her big brown eyes sparkling with curiosity, completely unaware that she nearly sent me into cardiac arrest.

I take a shaky breath and close my eyes, focusing on each frayed nerve ending in my body as I will myself to calm the fuck down. “Why do you feel the need to burst into my room without knocking?”

She closes the door and leans against it, crossing her arms over her chest. “What’s the point in having a key if I don’t use it?”

I eye her incredulously. “You abuse the privilege.”

“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes and pushes off the door. She walks toward me and plops down on the bed beside me.

“I was napping,” I reply, tapping my phone screen to check the time. It's just a little after seven, but I realize I've dozed off longer than I intended. I can’t believe I fell asleep and wasted most of the evening. “ Shit .”

I scramble off the bed as Kruz tucks her legs underneath her, her tight dark curls bouncing with the movement. “Have somewhere to be?”

“Kronk. Wanna come with?” I pull on my boots and grab my flannel from the hook on the wall.

She gives me a look of pure disgust, her nose scrunching adorably. “I can’t believe you walk up that hill for fun. To the cemetery, no less.”

“Correction: Kronk thinks it’s fun. But it is peaceful up there. A nice reminder of our transient existence.”

She rolls her eyes. “Most of us don’t want to be reminded of our transient existence .” She says the words like they’re offensive.

“Memento mori, bitch.” I flip her off and pull open the door.

She flops onto her back. “I’ll be waiting for your return.”

“Let me know if Ophelia shows up while I’m gone,” I say with a smirk. She’s easy to spook and like all good friendships, ours revolves around light mutual bullying.

She pops upright. “Why do you always go there?”

“Because you’re an irrational scaredy cat and it’s funny.”

She scoots to the edge of the bed and slides off. “Well. I’m not staying here now.”

“Oh grow up. I’m here alone all the time. It’s fine.” I don’t tell her I’m starting to wonder myself.

Her Converse shoes smack against the stone floor. “Don’t care. I just wanted to ask if you’d come with me to a victimology of violent crimes talk in the morning.”

“Sure.” I pull the door open and gesture for her to exit first. “I could probably use it.”

“CRIM still have you down?”

“My brain is a veritable melted pile of goo, but I beat the shit assignment into submission and turned in a less-shit version of it just a few hours ago.”

She loops her arm through mine as we walk to the end of the hall where the staircase is. “Is tomorrow your last day with Maggie?”

“Don’t remind me.” I haven’t updated her on the job situation, so I tell her about Jack and Sienna as we make our way to the bottom floor. “It’ll be on a trial basis at first, but I’m hopeful.” I leave out the part where his hair is always mussed in a sexy kind of way and the veins that run along his forearms are probably considered public indecency in at least seven different countries.

“Get some cinnamon.”

I side-eye her. I’m convinced she has witch lineage. I decide to humor her, per usual. “For what? ”

“To blow through your door next week. On the first.” She is matter of fact, like I’m the one who’s strange for not knowing. “For good luck and to channel abundance. You could use it.”

She means the situation with my parents, not just because I’m starting a new job in a few weeks. Every day that passes adds another layer of unease; wondering whether today is the day I’ll get the call that my mother has passed or something near equally horrendous in regard to answers about my father’s murder. I try not to let it show that any of this eats at me, but Kruz can read me.

“Someone needs to blow cinnamon through my limbic system the first of every month.” I laugh at my joke, but she’s unimpressed.

We say our goodbyes, and I set off down the path that leads into town, heading toward Maggie's house to pick up Kronk. A sudden gust of wind cuts through my clothes and I wrap my arms around myself. The cold bites at my cheeks, causing my eyes to water.

I feel it again—like I’m being watched—and it makes me question if maybe the ghost stories are true. Something scrapes at the surface of my thoughts, a small voice—a whisper that tells me to run.

I am logical above all else, even when my mind betrays me like this, which I can’t say has happened often until recently. I look at myself from an outside perspective, analyzing my thoughts and behavior. This is stress, nothing more. And this paranoia comes from my subconscious—the part of me that sneaks up out of nowhere from time to time and feels guilty and anxious that I’m still unwilling to have much of anything to do with my mother even after everything recently.

I remind myself she’s not dying because of me. She’s dying because she has a buildup of amyloid proteins in her kidneys, and the fact that she is dying does not change our relationship or her past decisions.

Or the fact that she’s never shown any remorse.

I shove the unwarranted panic somewhere deep down and keep walking because there’s one thing I’m sure of: I don’t intend to answer whatever it is that whispers.