“They found traces of benzodiazepines in your system. This is a common date rape drug. We believe you may have been incapacitated when the shooting happened. Perhaps that’s why you don’t remember anything?”
I turn to see Detective Johnson, who has now taken the place of Missy. I gasp in horror at her. My eyes snap back to the kitchen. The restless need to run stirs from the pit of my chest.
“Run, Alma,” I whisper. “Run.”
But I don’t run. I watch myself become dreary. The taste in my mouth feels different. The sweet citrus flavor is now thick and bitter.
“You look tired.” Esteban’s tone is as smooth as the tequila sliding down my throat.
“I’m fine.”
“Alma, babe, you’re drunk.” A wicked smile plays across his face.
Aslow warmth creeps up my body, thick like syrup. My limbs feel heavy, and my heartbeat echoes in my ear.
“Esteban?” I try to speak, but my words slur. “What’s happening?”
He crouches beside me, his fingers brushing my knees. “Shh. You’re just tired.”
His tone is sweet, but I can hear the venom laced in it. I watch myself attempt to stand, and the room folds in on us. Something cold grabs hold of my hand, and I turn to see Missy’s hollow face. I scream at the sight of her. Bright red blood streams from her eyes, suffocating me.
My body jolts up in bed.
I’m panting, drenched in sweat, and I think I’ve escaped the nightmare just to realize this isn’t a nightmare. It’s a memory.
Tap
Tap
Tap.
The tree continues singing its deliverance song. Clasping my hand over my mouth, I feel the warm liquid spilling from my eyes. I’ve woken up like this once before.
Disoriented.
Naked.
Afraid.
“Esteban? What’s going on?” My voice cracks.
“Go back to sleep.”
There’s a heavy feeling in my bones. As if all the blood had been drained from me and replaced with sand. Somehow, I manage to sit up and swing my legs to the side of the bed. Esteban is setting up a camera, but stops when he sees me moving. He rushes toward me, pushes me back down, and pins my shoulders to the bed.
“I told you. Stop. Fucking. Fighting.”
My hands fly to his face, but he’s quick to grab them and pin them over my head.
“Stop fighting, you fucking bitch.”
My head jerks sideways, a bright white light flashing at the edge of my vision. The pain is there before I can breathe it in. He lifts his fist again—a threat to do what he says. There’s madness in his eyes, hate written all over his face.
“Please. Esteban.” My voice falters, catching on the edge of his name.
We’ve fought before, but it’s never gotten violent. I don’t know what I did wrong. Every instinct inside me tells me to run. A small prayer slips from my lips to the only person I could call to save me.
“Missy, help me.”
