Jaime was trapped in a small, dark room, curled up on a concrete floor. He couldn’t see anything through the dark, and he couldn’t move his hands or feet, feeling the tight pull of the zip-ties against his skin as he tried to stand.
The room was silent except for the muted sounds of his frantic movements in the enclosed space, his sneakers bumping up against boxes and crates stacked on the dirty floor and his heavy breaths choking behind the gag shoved in his mouth.
But then he was free, scrambling across sticky, wet carpet toward what was left of Vera’s body.
She had been standing right next to him just a few seconds ago, telling him how much she loved the painting, saying that she would be right back, that she wanted to go grab her phone to get a picture of them together with it.
And now she was torn open and left a bloody heap leaking all over the floor.
Jaime’s hands fluttered over her body, helpless, trying to put her back together—failing to scoop her insides back into herripped torso. The steady beat of his heart was so loud in the narrow hallway.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
There was so much blood. He needed to get up, now, but he felt stuck. He needed to find his phone, needed to call Sam or the police or someone who would come and help him, save him from this.
Step. Step. Step.
Jaime couldn’t move anymore, his hands and feet were chained down and dripping blood that wasn’t his.
Step. Step. Step.
The steady footfalls grew louder. The man was right behind Jaime, now.
He knew he should turn and look, but he couldn’t. He tried, desperately willing his body to move, willing himself to turn his head, to see the person hovering at his shoulder.
A wet, rancid breath exhaled past his turned face. “I’m going to kill you, just like I killed her.”
Jaime woke with a sharp inhale, clawing at the sheets that were bunched up around his throat and ripping them off his sweat-drenched body. Panting heavily, he wiped the moisture from his brow and cheeks and stared at his blessedly familiar ceiling.
Home. He was home, and no one was here to hurt him. He’d gotten out of that house, and was alone in his bedroom. He repeated to himself that he was safe, hoping someday the words would sink in.
He went through several of the exercises from the pamphlet that his therapist gave him on managing his PTSD and anxiety, and slowed his breathing and racing thoughts enough to reach for his phone, dialing the only number he ever felt safe enough to call these past weeks.
“Jaime?” Sam’s voice was groggy. Jaime cursed himself when he saw that it was almost three o’clock in the morning.
Voice wet, he croaked, “Sam. I’m, um, sorry for calling so late. I just—I had a bad dream, and needed to talk.”
Sam sighed. Jaime cursed himself again for not thinking about the late hour. “Did you do the exercises your therapist gave you?”
Jaime nodded. “Yeah, I did. They helped.”
“Good.”
Jaime waited for him to say something else, but there was only silence. “Ok. Um, I’ll let you go. Sorry for calling you so late. Sorry.”
He hung up the phone. It was unfair to expect Sam to be there to help him through every nightmare, every bout of severe anxiety, every bad day. His brother had already done so much for him—hiring a lawyer, and being there for him constantly in those first few days when everything was too much for him to handle alone.
Jaime needed to get a grip. He hadn’t been hurt, not really. He hadn’t even seen the murder happen. He’d only heard her screams and the sound of her body hitting the floor, just outside of the living room they had stood in together only moments before…
Jaime flipped on the bedside lamp, cutting those thoughts off. He could take care of himself. So, he focused on his breathing, and went through the motions of changing his sheets, tossing the sweat-soaked set into the washer before rinsing off in the shower, swallowing a hydroxyzine tablet, and then he climbed back into bed.
But he couldn’t fall asleep, even when he felt the medication soothe his tired mind. Instead he laid there, staring at the moon peeking through the clouds outside of his window. He thoughtof soft, soil-brown eyes, and that warm fizzy feeling he had when they crinkled in laughter.
Those perfect eyes were lost to him, now. He’d shoved them away in his panic and fear during the first few days after the murder, when Jaime hadn’t trusted anyone or anything except for his brother.
But on sleepless nights spent staring at the moon hanging low over the lake, Jaime thought of him, and of all the chances that had slipped through his fingers. Was he staring at the moon right now, too? Did he sometimes wonder about Jaime?
Did he think about Jaime as much as Jaime thought about him?
