The murder board watches us from across the room.
Tomorrow, I have to see him in person. Pretend his Instagram follow is normal professional networking.
But tonight—tonight I’m just going to sit here with Alex and drink wine and try not to think about the fact that Marcus Ashford is scrolling through my life right now, learning everything about me, deciding what role I’ll play in his.
Alex shifts closer on the couch. Not saying anything. Just pressing her shoulder against mine. That solid weight that says I’m here, you’re not alone.
I lean into her. Rest my head on her shoulder the way I’ve been doing since we were twelve.
“We’re so fucked,” I whisper.
“Completely fucked,” she agrees. Her hand finds mine, pinkies linking. Fifteen years of that gesture, and it’s never meant more.
The phone buzzes again.
Alex squeezes my pinky tighter. I squeeze back.
We don’t look.
Just two terrified women in matching muumuus, holding onto each other while a serial killer scrolls through our lives.
Two
“That’s not what happened.”
The words echo in my head as I wake—not my voice, someone else’s—and fear zings through me, hot and sharp. Electric.
I don’t remember the dream. Can’t recall a single image, a single moment. Just those words, ringing in my skull like someone spoke them directly into my brain.
That’s not what happened.
A woman’s voice. Angry. Insistent. Desperate.
Not my voice.
I’m not sure there are words for what I just felt. Terror doesn’t cover it. Panic is too small. Maybe there’s a German word for it—something compound and efficient that captures the specific sensation of waking up with someone else’s thoughts in your head.
Or maybe it’s just schizophrenia.
But no—is that even how that works? Can you just suddenly develop schizophrenia at twenty-seven? Is hearing voices in your sleep a symptom or am I just losing my entire mind in the most dramatic way possible?
I should google it.
I’m not going to google it.
I exhale slowly, trying to ground myself. Become aware of my surroundings.
My room. My bed. My apartment. I’m home.
So why do I feel like I’m not home?
The air feels wrong. Too thick. Too cold. Like someone left a window open except all the windows are closed. I can see them from here—closed, locked, curtains drawn against the night.
That’s when it hits me. Settles into my bones like ice water.
I’m not alone.
My heart thuds once in my chest. Hard. Fast. Breath-stealing.
