Page 36 of From That Moment

“Oh my God,” she whispered, her eyes wide.

“Don’t act as if you care. Get out. And leave my fucking key.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but then she left, her hands shaking. I honestly didn’t care.

We hadn’t been in a serious or healthy relationship.

I didn’t feel guilty, I couldn’t. Maybe I would later.

For now, I would call a locksmith and change my locks, just in case. I wondered what the fuck else I was going to do.

Because I didn’t love Paris, not even a little.

Yet Iwasattracted to her. And that was a problem on many fronts.

I had never acted on those feelings, had never done anything untoward.

Allison didn’t believe me. Though that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

Damn, I wanted that fucking beer. And to forget.

I knew I would never be able to get the sound of Paris’s scream out of my head. Not until the end of my days.

Never.

Chapter 8

Paris

Gravel scraped my chin,my face. I blinked, trying to get the cobwebs out of my mind. There was something wrong. I couldn’t hear anything, couldn’t speak. It was as if I stood in a vacuum, everything was moving too slowly, and yet I wasn’t even on my feet. I couldn’t make sense of it at all. Nothing made sense.

My cheek hurt, and my hands ached where my palms bled from where the gravel had pierced. My knees burned, as well. And then I was on my back, and someone’s hands were around my throat. I clawed, my fingernails digging in but not gaining purchase in the gloves. Why was the person wearing gloves? Had they been prepared for this? Why couldn’t I focus? Why couldn’t I think?

I kicked and thrashed, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t going to be enough.

I gasped out a name, but not my own, not even a call for help.

Tracey.

Tracey wasn’t here.

She was dead.

My baby sister was dead, and I wasn’t near the trailer. Instead, I was dying here, begging for someone to help me. And yet nobody could help.

I was little, too young to remember, and yet far too old to forget.

I was wearing the same clothes I’d had on when they killed her, and I was now covered in blood and screaming.

This time, the shadow above me turned into the man or woman who had attacked me.

I knew this had to be a dream. Or maybe a memory.

Perhaps I was mixing them up, but I couldn’t focus enough to pull myself out of the nightmare.

I couldn’t scream or slap my face or pinch my arms or do anything to pull myself out of the dream.

Nothing worked.