Page 98 of When The Mountains Held Us

“Hey, listen here you asshole—” the man starts, but I interrupt him again.

“Sorry for intruding. Enjoy your night.” Without another word, I jog towards Joe’s parking lot where we left my truck. Justin is hot on my heels while the man shouts a colorful array of expletives at our backs, then slams the door loud enough to make the rickety single-pane windows rattle.

Where the fuck is she?!

Justin climbs into the truck and slams the door behind him before turning to face me.

“Where else could they be?” he asks, and something niggles at the back of my mind.

Maybe I’ve finally calmed down enough to remember, or maybe it was something about the motel room that jogs my memory, but I think back to when Oakley was staying here. Or namely, why she was staying here.

I missed my appointment with the building manager of the apartment I was supposed to be touring today.

“The apartments across from the bar.” I whisper the words into the quiet of the cab, and a second later, the engine roars to life and we’re peeling out of the gravel lot. Of course, that’s where they are. Oakley had mentioned something about the apartment already being rented out, and that’s why she was staying at the motel.

Now, I just have to pray I’m not too late.

Hang on, baby. I’m coming.

Forty-Seven

Oakley

Something sticky and metallic trickles down my neck as I struggle to open my eyes amid the pain. My eyelids are impossibly heavy, like someone’s pinned them down with super glue, but I finally manage to pry them open a fraction after I’m not sure how many minutes of struggling.

The world spins around me, the bright yellowing light piercing and sending shooting stars across my line of vision. My ears ring with a high-pitched tone, and I shake my head to clear the fog, only to cry out when a sharp throb reverberates through my head at the motion. My arms try to lift on instinct to clutch my head, but something is weighing them down, and I don’t have the energy to fight for the small movement right now.

Something is wrong.

Something is very wrong.

I just can’t remember what.

I’m groggy and disoriented. What happened?

With every second of confusion that passes, the pulse in my temples thuds louder, and my mind grows more panicked. My breaths come quicker now, no doubt thanks to the adrenaline pumping through my body. I think the hormone is the only reason I’m awake right now, like my body recognizes it’s in danger even if my mind doesn’t understand why.

I lick my chapped lips, grimacing at the rough texture as I glide my tongue over them. I swallow and wince. My throat feels like I swallowed sandpaper. The throbbing in my head makes it hard to focus, but I force myself to look around anyway, ignoring the stab of discomfort at the light when I open my eyes.

At first, I can’t see anything, just that blinding fucking light, and it takes my eyes a minute to adjust. I blink rapidly, trying to clear my vision. It takes another fear-soaked minute, but finally, I glance around and take in the room around me.

I’m lying on my side on the hardwood floor, my hips and shoulders aching with the pressure of having been in the same position for too long without moving. My back is up against something firm—a couch, I think?—and I struggle to push myself up to sitting, fighting for the simple movement that takes up way too much of my energy. My hands are asleep from resting in the uncomfortable position, and I flex my fingers in a feeble attempt to bring some feeling back into them.

The room is easier to take in now that I’m sitting up, though confusion and a lingering sense of dread still coats my brain as I glance around. In front of me sits a small television on top of a scratched black cabinet with clear glass doors. The cabinet looks old and worn, the finish chipped off in places and dented in others. It looks like it’s seen the inside of a dozen homes, and better days, at best. There’s a couch behind me that smells like it’s been wet, and then dried out in the sun, repeatedly for days on end, and I try not to focus on the unidentifiable stains that litter the beige upholstery.

A long, dark hallway stretches out from the room I’m currently in, the yellow light dying halfway down it so I can’t see where it leads. An involuntary shiver spider-walks down my spine, and I dart my gaze to the left, noticing a large window with dirty panes of glass peeking through the dingy curtains. Wherever this place is, it’s in absolute disarray, like it’s been vacant for far too long.

I scan my eyes to my right, following the yellow light to where it disappears around a wall, a sliver of outdated orange tile visible. That must be the kitchen. If the living room looks like this, I don’t even want to see the state of the kitchen.

“You’re finally awake. I was wondering when you were planning on joining the fun.”

The sudden voice in the otherwise silent room jolts me, and I jump. My heart lodges itself somewhere in my throat as I frantically scan my surroundings for the source, but I come up empty.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Not even going to greet me properly?”

I freeze at the familiarity of that voice, my muscles locking in place as a tidal wave of panic rips through my chest like the serrated slice of a sharpened blade.

It can’t be.