With that morbid thought, I reset my attention to my laptop and the thousands of photos I need to sort, cull, edit, and categorize per event.
I sip the first coffee and get to work.
“One minute, Gallagher,” a voice drawls. In the smoky darkness, a twisted face stares at me. The disgust, the pure hatred in their gaze chokes out my last breath.
I spin, but run face-first into cold, hard metal.
Shit.
The walls start closing in around me. The face, now inches from mine, snarls. “One minute... Now you know the value.”
Staggering backward, my foot hits something solid. Something like a limb.
I snap my eyes down.
A khaki-covered leg lies on the ground, severed from its body.
A soundless scream rips through my throat.
A hand closes over my mouth.
The ground shakes.
I can’t move?—
“Maggie!”
I thrash against the restraints that have suddenly appeared.
“...Wake up, Maggie.” The gruff voice tugs me upward.
I jerk up off the bed, hands grappling at my chest.
I can’t breathe.
“You good?” Hadley dips his chin.
I blink.
How the?—
“Ho-how did you get in here?” I choke.
“The door was unlocked.” His gaze sweeps over my bed covered in papers. My laptop has fallen from my lap to the side of the bed, and two empty coffee cups sit on the small table.
“I-I fell asleep . . .”
Hadley runs a hand through his hair, and it’s then I realize he’s not wearing a shirt. His face drops into a frown. “You have nightmares often?”
“Sometimes. Occupational hazard,” I utter.
“How so?” His face twists as it tilts.
“You want me to explain the effects of PTSD to you at”—I tap my phone to check the time—“three twelve in the morning?”
He clears his throat. “Guess not.”
“I’m fine. You can go back to your truck, Jones.”
