“Mostly.” Nicole picks at her pink neon nail polish, a telltale sign she’s procrastinating because she doesn’t want to clean the floor. It’s not my fault she wanted to make a bet and lost. “But some people still think there’s a secret floor underneath the park that is being used for organ trafficking for the black market.”
A giggle bubbles out of my throat. Yeah. Sure. I move toward the door that Jeremy came out of, which leads to the break room at the back of the large building we share with a few other restaurants and storefronts. “All right, I’ve had enough of this.”
“We’re not joking with you, Kate. It’s true,” she pushes. “You should ask Vincent about it the next time you see him. He’s been here longer than any of us and was working here in the 80s, and when those twelve people were shot and disappeared five years ago.”
My nose wrinkles. Nothing against Vincent, but he’s ominous. My pulse accelerates whenever I see him for some reason, and I’m not sure why. Sure, I have exchanged some one-word greetings with the man, but there’s something off about him that puts me on edge and makes me want to avoid elongating my interactions.
“You’ve talked to him about it?” I ask.
Nicole’s shudder is a little exaggerated if you ask me. “Hell no. He gives me the creeps.”
She’s not wrong. Those hard, gunmetal eyes set under bushy brows contain a world of stories that I’m not sure I want to hear. Most people avoid him for a reason, and I just suspect I should, too. But it doesn’t stop me from giving him a gentle wave whenI’m leaving after my shift, and he comes to clean. I’m not a total bitch.
“Thanks for the remarkably believable ghost story,” I deadpan, pointing at the door, “but I think I’m going to head out.” I cluck my tongue. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”
I register their whispering voices behind my back as I push past the door and walk to the break room to gather my things from my locker.
When I enter the small space, it’s still. Quiet compared to the thoughts creating discord in my head.
I won’t entertain the idea.
That thought lasts about two seconds before I inhale a deep breath. My eyes flutter closed, my ears adjusting to sense every sound that reaches me.
I tell myself it's not true.
However, it still doesn’t stop me from wondering if a world exists beneath my shoes. A hidden place harboring an evil that will fuel my already bone-chilling nightmares the moment sleep drags me under.
THREE | PRESTON
The pounding of my fists against the bag is controlled. Precise. Impeccably matching the drumming of my pulse in my ears.
It satisfies me knowing that although there may be a goddamn war raging in my head, I can keep myself collected under pressure. Nothing makes a man more vulnerable than disregarding your boundaries to submit to your rage. Allowing your anger to take control causes you to lose sight of your objective, and I can't afford to slip into those depths. If I do, I'll never pull myself out.
It took me years the last time.
The rage poisoned me.
Altered my being until I shifted into a monster that crawled out of my flesh with the determination to gnash and tear a vile man apart with my teeth. I wanted to relish in what it would feel like to rip his organs through his esophagus and make a noose out of his intestines to rob him of breath.
That vision of him blanked my vision and weakened my resolve to be patient.
But over the years, I’ve learned that revenge isn’t impulsive.
It’s planned.
Executed with as much precision as my fists smashing into the bag in time with my dead, but somehow still beating heart.
The truth is brutal. Patient or not, nothing I do will bringthemback.
It wouldn’t fill our home with laughter. It wouldn’t inject the lightheartedness back into the bones of our estate that instantly decayed and rotted the moment they were taken from us.
My father and I both died the moment our eyes locked on that box sitting outside our estate’s main gate.
When my father picked it up, a wordless conversation flowed between us in the form of my father's exhale. Somehow, we both knew. We’ve held enough body parts to recognize that the weight is unmatched. Not even the styrofoam box, concealed behind cardboard, could erase the metallic stench and hint of cigar that stained the floral spring air.
When we finally got our wits together enough to open it, it was the first time that the sight of human organs made me release the acid searing my stomach. For days. Until I was the shell of a man wishing that bastard would’ve had the balls to carve my father and me instead, since we were the ones he wanted.
At least, that’s what we thought.
