WHEN FULLY FUSED

BOOK THREE: THE SCHASM SERIES

SHARI J. RYAN

Booktrope Editions

Seattle, WA 2014

COPYRIGHT 2014 SHARI J. RYAN

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Edited by Katrina M. Randall

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

PRINT ISBN 978-1-62015-463-2

EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-473-1

Library of Congress Control Number:  2014912842

Table of Contents

COVER

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT PAGE

DEDICATION

PREFACE

CHAPTER ONE: SOUGHT AFTER GOLD

CHAPTER TWO: ARCHIVES

CHAPTER THREE: DEATH, BIRD, FAMILY

CHAPTER FOUR: A BIRD’S REFLECTION

CHAPTER FIVE: AN OLD FRIEND WITH NEW HABITS

CHAPTER SIX: A BAD PLAN

CHAPTER SEVEN: FLYING TO FIND THE END

CHAPTER EIGHT: HOME IS NOT WHERE THE HEART IS

CHAPTER NINE: GRAY SUIT

CHAPTER TEN: PARIS IN A DAY

CHAPTER ELEVEN: FINALLY GOT HIS WAY

CHAPTER TWELVE: UNCONSCIOUS LOVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: UNTOLD TRUTHS

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE TRUTH

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: DAD’S HIDEAWAY

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: CAN’T COMPARE APPLES TO ORANGES

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: BREAKING AND ENTERING

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: LOOPHOLES IN THE DARK

CHAPTER NINETEEN: THREE BLUE SUITS

CHAPTER TWENTY: FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: THE LOCKET

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: THE PILL

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: REDO

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: A CHILD’S STATE OF MIND

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: YEAR 2023

EPILOGUE

A NOTE TO MY READERS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PREVIEW OF TAG

MORE FROM SHARI RYAN AND BOOKTROPE

Dedicated to my sister, Lori—my best friend and my shoulder to lean on.

This is for you.

PREFACE

I HOPE THIS works. I mean, it has to work.

"Sammy, can you get Mommy a glass of water?" I ask, watching him put the final touches on his stick-figure drawing.

I wonder if I'll forget about him. I wonder what will happen to all my memories. I watch the little head of blond curls bounce over to me, happy and carefree.

"Here Mommy. Here's your water," he says with a content look.

"Thank you, Sammy," I respond with a lump in my throat.

I carefully place the glass of water down on the counter and kneel down to Sammy's level. "Come here, sweetie," I say, wrapping my fingers gently around his little arm. I pull him in close to me.

"What's the matter, Mommy?”

CHAPTER ONE:

SOUGHT AFTER GOLD

I'M NOT SURE why people tell you not to cry over spilled milk. Are they talking to the parents, or to the children who are spilling the milk? This is the third spill I've cleaned up today. Messes suck, even in a drift. I wish my mind could figure out how to clean it up without me having to get down on my hands and knees.

Just as I'm peeling up the last piece of macaroni from the tiled floor, a brash knock on the front door startles me and I thump my head under the table. It's only eight in the morning. People seriously have no common courtesy these days.

Rubbing my sore head, I push the loose strands of hair off of my face and try to look presentable for whoever is rude enough to be knocking at this time of day.

I separate two of the blinds and peek out before opening the door. Great. Another salesman. I wish these people would just give up. I unlatch the chain, twist the deadbolt, and open the front door only a crack. "Can I help you?" I ask in a snide voice.

"Hello, ma’am. I don't mean to bother you so early in the morning, but could you spare a moment of your time?" the opulently well-dressed man asks. Looking at him a little closer, I notice he doesn't look like a typical door-to-door salesman. I'm no expert in the fine clothing department, but I'm sure his shimmering gray suit and snakeskin leather shoes are probably worth more than a car payment for my new little Prius out there.

"Now really isn't a good time, sir. If you'd like to come back later, my husband will be home around five tonight." I attempt to close the door, but his fingers wrap around the edge, holding it firmly in place and making it so I can’t close it.

"Alex is not the one I need to speak with. It's you. And I'm nicely asking you for a moment of your time, Chloe." His voice has lowered an octave and sounds more like a growl.

I press both of my hands against the door and push it harder without concern for the man’s fingers that are wedged between the threshold and the door. It closes enough so I can attach the chain at the top to constrict the door from opening any further. "What do you want?" I ask, hiding my face. I can’t believe they’re here now. I look over my shoulder to make sure Sammy isn't witnessing another one of these incidents.

He’s not, thankfully.

"Where is it?" The man shouts with aggression growing in his voice.

"Where is what?" I play dumb.

"Where is the damn locket?" I swallow hard. This locket has become a dark shadow that follows me around. No matter how fast I run or how hard I try to hide from it, it’s always lurking around the corner.

"What is it with you people and this stupid locket? I don't know anything about any locket, or its whereabouts." I twirl my finger in the air, gesturing for him to turn around and leave. I know he can see my hand through the opening where his fingers still have a grip on the door. "Bye-bye now." I press my entire body up against the door, pushing as hard as I can. I hear the man groan from the pain of his likely broken fingers. He tries to pull his hand out and makes it as far as his knuckles. Simply because I want him to leave, I lessen my weight against the door. He slides his hand out and I slam the door shut, locking each of the three deadbolts.

I fall against the door and thump the back of my head into it. I can’t deal with this anymore. There is no break from this. I hate that I’m subjecting Sammy to a life I promised I would never give him. I want him to be able to go outside and play and live like a normal four-year-old. But how can I when we’re being constantly watched with a pair of binoculars? We have no clue how many people are after the locket. And if it were up to me, I’d go find that damn thing again and gladly hand it to the first person that asks for it. It’s of no use to me lying on some rock in the Catacombs. Nevertheless, whenever I say the word locket around Alex, it’s as if I’ve unleashed some demon that should only be known about and never spoken of. It’s been an uncomfortably touchy subject over the past four years. As it should be, considering how many people are after the damn thing, and me for that matter. I know there is a deeper explanation for it. After all, this entire world was concocted within the confines of my broken mind. I’m just not sure I understand the reasoning behind a secret that my mind must be keeping from my subconscious.

***

The sun is beginning to dull and dip down below the horizon. I’ve been standing here, staring blankly out of the kitchen window, waiting for Alex and not another psychopath to pull into the driveway.

“Mommy, I’m hungry.” Sammy’s voice pulls me out of my trance. He tugs on the back of my shirt and looks up at me with his beautiful Alex-like eyes. “Can I have a snack?”

I kneel down in front of him and pull him into my chest. “We’re having dinner in a half hour. We’re just waiting for Daddy to come home.” We have the same conversation every day at five o’clock. Now he’s going to give me his best puppy dog pout and scuff his feet against the linoleum tiles.

“Fineeee,” he whines and meanders out into the living room. He’s such a good kid. We’re so lucky with how understanding he is and always has been with our constant moving and running away from any sense of a solid foundation. If things stay like this, I don’t know how we’ll be able to handle him attending school. We can’t just rip him out anytime someone comes knocking on our door. I feel disappointed in myself. I need to protect him from this life he’s falling into. And protection doesn’t always mean running. It means fighting off whatever is pushing us away.

Alex pulls into the driveway. I watch him remove his aviator sunglasses and hook them up on his window visor. He catches me looking at him from the window, and it’s easy to tell he can read the meaning of my expression. His lips sag downwards and his shoulders slump as I see the seat belt fling behind him. It takes him less than fifteen seconds to make it from his car to where I’m standing in the kitchen.

We don’t exchange words at first. He wraps his arms around me and nuzzles his head into my shoulder. He smells like fresh soap, as if he just showered. He pulls away and places his hands around the sides of my neck. He leans his head down to meet my eyes and looks at me intently. “What happened?” What is he waiting for me to tell him? I’m sure he can guess what happened. We get a good solid month before we’re found again. And we’ve been living in this house for exactly thirty days today. It’s almost as good as clockwork.

"Another one came by today," I tell him the obvious facts.

He pulls me back into his chest and runs his fingers through the loose messy knot of hair piled on my head. “Sorry, Chlo.” He whispers his apology as if it were his fault. He can’t protect me every second of the day, but sometimes he acts as if he was placed in my world only to protect me.

I kiss his nose and pull out of his tight grip. “It’s dinner time,” I say with a forced smile. He doesn’t move. He just stands there, watching me bounce off of each corner in the kitchen, preparing to remove the casserole from the oven.

“Chlo, stop.” I don’t want to stop. Because when I do, he’s going to want my attention. He’s going to tell me we’re leaving again. He’s going to tell me we have to keep running. And I am so sick of running.

“Just let them catch us, Alex.” I wrench open the oven and whip an oven-mitt from the hook above my head. “Just give them the damn thing. I don’t want it, and I don’t need it.”

Alex opens the silverware drawer, retrieves a handful of forks and drops them onto the counter. "You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I can see anger sizzling out of his eyes. He’s been trying so hard to protect us, but we’re being stalked. Every time Alex thinks he’s outsmarted them, he quickly finds that not to be the case.

"Yes," I respond softly while picking up the dropped silverware, “I do.” My reassuring words don’t have any effect on him. I scoop up the forks and sway my attention away from the look on his face.

He gently retrieves the forks from my hand and places them down on the three napkin settings on the table. "I'm sorry. I just thought we would lose them for a little while if we moved back here.”

“Thirty days is all we ever get from them, Alex.”

He drops down into his seat and lets his head fall into his hands. “Shit. I should call Celia and make sure they didn't get to her too," he says, standing up and sliding his phone out of his pocket.

"I already called and warned her. She said a man stopped in front of her house but never approached the front door. She's fine, don't worry."

He inhales sharply and closes his eyes. “I am so sick of this. We are never going to be able to live a normal life here.”

“Here? There’s evidently nowhere.”

“I know,” he says, wringing his hand around the back of his neck. “I was obviously wrong again.”

“So, now what? Should we leave this world behind, go back to a place where your mind doesn’t work and my mind can’t stay planted in one place? Because, to be honest…that doesn’t really sound like a better option to me.” I pull Sammy’s chair out for him to sit down. “This is the only way Sammy can have two parents. Do I have to remind you of this?” I comb my fingers through Sammy’s hair, regretting what I just said in front of him.

“We’re in trouble, Chloe. I don’t know what else to do,” he says.

“We’re always in trouble,” I groan. I place Alex’s and Sammy’s plates down in front of them. “At least we can have a little normal here.” I nudge my head toward Sammy.

“So we should just keep running?” he asks.

“It’s better than the alternative: a world where we can’t be together.” I sit down at the opposite end of the table.

He stabs his fork into the chicken casserole and looks up at me with a weary expression. "Why didn't you call me today when it happened? I told you I would always take your call at work, Chloe."

He just started there a few weeks ago; I didn't want to get him in trouble. I know how important this job is to him and our family. “It was nothing that couldn't wait until you got home."

"I just wish you would have called, okay? When this happens again, I want you to call me." Okay, so I’ll be calling him tomorrow, I’m sure. When we were in Charleston, I had a different man at my door every day. It was as if they thought their lame salesman acts weren’t new to me—as if I didn’t know why they were really there. I won’t let them in. They know that and I know that. What I don’t know is why we’re running from something that won’t go away no matter where we are. I’m sure Alex knows. I’m sure he has more insight. And I’m sure he just doesn’t want to tell me, as always.

I place my fork and knife back down on the table and I set my eyes on his. He looks over at me and nods his head, silently begging me not to ask what I'm about to ask. He knows because I ask every day. I’m hoping he’ll give up and tell me one of these days, but it won’t happen without me wearing him down first. It’s been four years of me begging to know what he knows. He claims to not know much more than I do, but sometimes he tells me it’s best if I don’t know. So I have to assume there’s something important he’s hiding.

I suck in a deep breath, trying to once again swallow my growing anger. I look over at Sammy, hoping to shift my mind onto something else. Asking this always causes arguments and I’m tired of fighting.

Of course, Sammy is staring at me, nodding his head just like Alex. While I know he's just copying what he sees, I can't help but wonder what that little mind knows, and if he knows too much as well. Now having nowhere else to look, my anger resurfaces. "Just tell me," I say softly.

"No, Chloe. Drop it." He clears his throat and looks over at Sammy. "Hey buddy, what did you do today?"

I take a deep breath and attempt to blow out my growing rage. We've been over this a thousand times, but it still eats away at me. I never should've put that locket back. If I didn't, maybe I would have gotten some answers on the importance of the stupid thing. I’m being followed by strange men, here in what is supposed to be our dream of a life. Alex won’t tell me anything. He wants to keep me in the dark, to protect me, against what, I still don’t know. It drives me nuts. I’m the one being followed. It’s a necklace with a picture of an old couple in front of a freaking rock. I can’t really understand what could be so damn important about it. And if it is so important, and it supposedly belongs to me, I should know why.

"All right, buddy. Go watch TV for a little bit, and I'll be in, in a few," Alex says, standing up with his plate.

Sammy bounces off into the next room, and I stand up with my plate as well. "What's your problem, Alex?" I say, unable to hide my frustration. I hate when we argue. And we only argue about this. The topic gets brought up far more often now than it has in the past, but only because these salesmen are showing up daily once they find me. Here I thought I was wearing them down, and as soon as I feel like I’ve gained some leverage, they increase their attempts to retrieve the information. Maybe Alex doesn’t want to tell me because he thinks I’m weak and I’ll give them the answers they’re looking for. And honestly, I’m not sure I wouldn’t. If it meant we could live in peace here, than I would do whatever it takes to have that.

"Chlo, I'm really tired of having the same argument over this matter. You've promised me time after time that you would drop it for me. So, why can't you?" he huffs as he drops his fork into the sink.

"Because, the situation is getting worse. I feel like I'm constantly being watched and monitored. I have no idea why. Yet, I have a strange feeling you do.” I can’t control the anger seeping through the cracks in my voice. I keep thinking I’ll break him down. But he’s as strong and persistent as I am. We’re both fighting a brick wall. “Put yourself in my shoes for a minute. How would you feel?"

He places his glass gently down into the sink and turns around to face me. He opens his arms and purses his lips into a pout. "Come here, baby."

Those blue eyes and perfect lips get me every time. Whenever I focus on them, my anger always diminishes, which is why I try to avoid looking at him when I’m trying to convince him to give me answers. But now it’s too late. I’ve fallen into his trap. His eyes have dragged me in like a magnet, and my body is now pressed up against his. The warmth of his embrace makes me forget why I’m angry. It’s almost like he knows he holds that power over me, and he uses it to his advantage. He rests his cheek on my head and whispers, "Sorry, Chlo. Hang in there. You'll have some answers soon."

I straighten my posture. The anger is back. It’s spiraling around my stomach and electrifying all of my emotional wiring. "What do you mean, soon?" He's never hinted at me actually finding out this deep dark secret. Why now?

He pulls me back in and hushes me. Seriously? He’s actually hushing me? His arms are wrapped so tightly around me that I’m getting the sense something isn't right—more than a secret he won’t share. "Love you, Chlo," he says with a deep inhale. "Let's go see what Sammy's up to." He's great at changing the subject. And now I’m faced with two options, ruining the night with an argument that I won’t win, or giving up as always and spending a nice quiet night with my husband and son.

“Okay.” I comply, even though my head is screaming to keep battling.

I release a heavy sigh; making it known I’m not letting this go but merely dropping it for now. He sits down next to Sammy on the living room couch, wraps his arm around his little body, and kisses the top of his messy blond curls. "Ready for bed, bud?"

"No, Daddy! I have to watch this first." Sammy smiles and turns his attention back to the TV.

"Okay, I guess I have no choice," Alex says, his voice rising into a playful octave.

"No!" Sammy shrieks with laughter.

Alex lifts Sammy up over his head and flies him down the hall like an airplane, wind noises and all. Alex likes to put Sammy to bed every night. It's his special bonding time with him. He's been working so much lately that he feels like he's missing out on Sammy's life. This new job at the accounting firm has him on a tight leash, but he enjoys the paycheck, and I appreciate him taking care of us.

He's worked so hard to get to where he is. Over the past four years, he's been taking night classes, interning, and serving as a gopher for various executives. Finally, a few months ago after we decided to move here to try and escape the freaks following us around, and to be closer to Celia, he applied at a local firm. To our surprise, they offered him a job. We quickly uprooted from Charleston and moved here to San Diego. Since we moved here, we’ve lived in three different locations in hopes to escape our followers. They’re winning.

"How was work today?" I ask him as he's walking back down the hall from Sammy's bedroom.

"It was good. Same old stuff. Let's not talk about work or strange men coming to the door. Let's just sit down, relax, and watch a movie. Can we do that?" He lifts my hand and pulls me toward the couch. “How’s my girl?”

“Good, now that you’re home.” I smile and fall into his arms. I switch the channels on the TV and choose the first movie I see on the menu. Alex places his arm around my shoulders and sinks into the couch. "My mother called today, again," I say.

His lips press firmly into a straight line as he lifts the remote and clicks the TV off. "Chlo, you're going to have to answer it eventually. She can't do anything to you. You're a married woman with a child. Maybe she just wants to make things right." I wish she would just leave me alone here. She shouldn’t be part of this world we’ve worked hard to create. She isn’t welcome, and I definitely don’t want her to see Sammy.

“I don’t want to talk to her.” I’m surprised she hasn’t just shown up here. She’s always managed to find a way in before. Maybe she is trying to do things right, but she has done things so wrong for so long, that there is no possible way to make things right.

Not now. Not ever.

Alex doesn’t seem to understand this, though. Maybe I’ve haven’t been clear enough recently how horrible she really was to me. He seems to think I owe her another chance. I’m just not sure why.

"You're telling me, if Sammy ever went missing, you wouldn't go to the ends of the earth to track him down?" he asks.

"Of course I would. My mother, though, she can't stand me. It’s different with her. I guarantee you there's an ulterior motive to her search. For all I know, she's probably after that stupid locket, too." The second the words leave my mouth Alex's eyes widen, and he presses his fingers into the stress lines on his forehead.

"I didn't even think of that," he says vaguely.

"Seriously? I was half joking. There's a chance my mother knows about this thing, and I don't?"

Alex responds with a loud groan. I should have figured. Maybe that’s why she’s hated me so much—the stupid locket again. That would actually make sense since it causes so much other turmoil in my life. "That's it," I shout. "I've had it. I want you to tell me right now what is so important about that old necklace." I throw my weight on top of Alex and pin him down to the couch. I straddle my legs over his waist and place my hands firmly over his shoulders. “Tell me.”

“Or what?” he says with a challenging grin.

“You don’t want to know what,” I say, raising an eyebrow.

He fists his hands around the collar of my shirt and pulls me down flat on top of him. He crashes his lips into mine and moves his hands slowly up the sides of my shirt. “Or what, Chlo?” he mutters against my lips. I slide my hand between us and unhook his belt, letting my hand wander down under his zipper. My lips slide across his jawline and down his neck, and as he replies with a soft groan, I know it’s my chance. I’m playing dirty now. Maybe it will work. I pull my hand out and sit up with a smile.

“That’s what. You’re on probation…from me until you tell me all of your secrets, Mr. Levette.”

“Hey now,” he whines. “No fair, you tease.”

"Alex, I want an explanation." I punch his chest playfully. “You give me what I want, and I’ll…give you what you want.” I press my lips back up against his.

He whines and flips me over onto my side. "Chlo, it's one of those things you'll know about when the time is right.” He sweeps his thumb down my cheek. “You promised you’d stop the future-knowing questions. Remember?” His voice is low and pleading. “Just think of the locket as a piece of gold that everyone's after. Except, it belongs to you. Someday you'll thank me for protecting your secret."

"My secret?" I reply.

"I wouldn't protect anything else this much if it weren't for you and Sammy." He pulls my head down onto his shoulder and places a kiss on my nose. “Please?” He presses his lips against my collarbone. I don’t know if he’s pleading for me, or for my questions to stop.

As I try to release the consuming pressure building within the walls of my chest, I focus on his moving lips, the craving in my belly, the crickets chirping outside of the window, and…gravel being scuffed against the ground. "Hey, do you hear that?" I ask, propping myself back up.

"Hear what?" he asks, jumping up like he’s ready to pounce.

I glance in every direction, feeling claustrophobic in my own house, now wishing we had shut the blinds before sunset. I'm nervous to look toward the front window near the door, but my head naturally turns in that direction when I hear the scuffling noise again.

The darkness outside of the window accents the two tiny white lights shining into the house. I press my fingers into Alex's tensed arm, and he pulls me off of the couch and lowers me to the ground.

"Stay here," he whispers. He makes his way toward the two lights. As he approaches the window, he slams his fist against the glass and the lights disappear almost instantly. He unbolts the door and unlinks the chain in one swift motion, flinging the door open.

With no further action from Alex, I watch as he hesitantly bends over to retrieve something from the ground. "What the hell?" he asks, scratching his head.

"What? What is it?" I ask, panic still saturating my voice.

"There's no one out here, but there are two tiny flashlights sitting here beneath the window. Someone obviously had to be holding them. But, you'd think I would have at least seen them running off?"

I peel myself up from the floor and pull one of the flashlights from his hand, inspecting it for clues. "Hmm...,” I sigh.

"What? Did you find something?" Alex asks.

"Yeah, it says Ocnarf & Co." I flip it over to see if there is anything else. Nothing. "Google it…" Before I even finish my sentence, he's sitting at the computer desk, pounding his fingers into the keys on his laptop.

"Unknown. Of course," he says, slamming his hands onto the desk. "I need to call Celia."

Alex pulls his phone from his pocket and presses two buttons before flattening the device up to his ear. "Are your blinds closed?" he asks calmly, probably trying not to freak her out. "Okay. Are your doors all locked?" he continues. "It's okay, don't worry. I just wanted to make sure everything is secure there. Sorry for waking—" His words cut off. "Mom, really, everything is fine. Go back to bed, and I'll talk to you in the morning." He clicks a button on his phone and drops it onto the desk.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"I think I freaked her out pretty good," he says, rubbing the tension out of his neck.

"Alex. Clearly, this is getting worse. We need to figure something out. Witness protection or something. I don't know." I shake my head with frustration.

Alex lets his head fall back, and he releases a loud throaty laugh. "Did you just say, 'Witness protection'?" He laughs again. "You do know that's for someone who watched the action of a crime and may be in danger for being a witness, right? I'm not quite sure our situation falls under that category." He walks away, snorting and whispering the words, witness protection under his breath.

As I'm peeling the throw blanket from the ground and folding it under my arm, Alex shouts from the kitchen, "I'm having an alarm system installed tomorrow. That will help us out a bit."

Just as I smooth the throw over the top of the couch, I see another light shining in through the window. "Alex, there's another light," I say, keeping my voice soft.

He runs to the door again, but by the time he's close enough, the light disappears.

CHAPTER TWO:

ARCHIVES

"THANKS CELIA, I appreciate you coming over to stay with Sammy," I say, giving her a quick hug.

"You don't have to thank me. I'd do anything to spend the afternoon with this little guy," she says, combing her fingers through Sammy's curls. "Just curious, where are you heading to?" She looks me over as if she’s searching my face to decide if I’m about to lie or tell the truth. I break our eye contact and straighten one of the decorative pillows on the couch.

"I just have to do a few errands." I offer a slight smile, hoping she doesn't read between the lines.

Her eye squints a bit, telling me she’s on to me. “Don’t get into any trouble now.” She opens the front door, motioning me to leave.

I kiss Sammy on the head and walk out the door. But before both of my feet cross the threshold, Celia wraps her fingers around my arm and pulls me to turn around. "Chloe. Don't…"

My heart lodges in my throat. I can’t lie to her. I can’t look her in the eyes and tell her I won’t do what she’s afraid I’ll do. My mother I could lie to. Celia, it hurts to do that. I step back in through the door. "I'm really just running to the library to get a book and then the grocery store." It’s not a lie. I’ve just left out the details.

"Just…be careful. Please." The lines around her lips quiver with worry. She’s aged in the past couple of years. The stress gets to her, but she tries to hide it. I’m not sure if it’s for our sake or hers, though.

I raise an eyebrow and smirk. "I'll make sure the watermelons don't topple over on me today." I stifle a laugh.

She nods her head with amusement and pushes me back out the door. “Good-bye, Chloe,” her voice sings.

I plop into my car and grip the back of my neck as I let my head fall lightly against the steering wheel. I have to find something. I have to find the answer to all of this. This aggravation and curiosity is going to get the best of me if I let it. I slide the key into the ignition and start the car.

As always, I glance into my rearview mirror and look in every direction. A black sedan is parked three driveways behind me on the right. I’m willing to bet myself he pulls out the second I turn my wheel. Yup. Do they think I can’t see them? Are they stupid? Am I stupid for thinking they’re stupid? I drive down as many side streets as quickly as I can. I continue driving in a maze until I’m sure I’ve lost him. It’s been four streets since I’ve seen him, and I think it’s okay to continue on to the library. Or at least I’ve given myself enough time to get inside before they catch up.

I walk through the large glass doors that make me feel vulnerable, as if I’m being watched in the reflection. I can feel I’m being followed, likely by someone different than the person following me in the car. I also know that the man in charge of my friendly neighborhood stalkers is smarter than the simple house alarm Alex seems to think will protect us.

I smash the pad of my thumb into the elevator button five times before the doors open and spit out at least twenty people. Just as the doors begin to close again, I sprint inside and jab my thumb into the number three button and then the close door button. I tap my hand nervously on the rail along the elevator wall, waiting out the long twenty-second ride to my floor.

The doors glide open and I find myself surrounded by a capacious circular room covered with newspaper clippings, magazine covers, and various pieces of art—leaving not even an inch of wall to be seen. The first sight of the room makes me want to spin around in awe. The library is new, and I’ve never come up here. Last night while I was contemplating the lightshow outside of our door, I came up with the idea to search through newspaper archives for hints.

In the center of the room, there are a group of twelve archive computers—all occupied except for one. I rush over and claim the empty seat, subtly glancing over each of my shoulders, still fearful of being surveyed.

I click the mouse over the search bar, and type: Locket + Paris, France + Catacombs.

I hover the cursor over the search button and suck in a deep breath as I wait for a result. The page begins to scroll, providing multiple results for my search. The first title preludes an article that instantly captures my attention: Paris' Darkest Secret. I click the link, and an image of a sepia colored faded newspaper with typed print appears. I zoom in a bit, bringing the date into focus. March 8, 1905.

I scroll down to the body of the article and begin reading:

Louis S. Bonet, a local baker preparing for his daily orders became startled as the walls of his petit kitchen began to rattle at 5:07 a.m. on Tuesday morning. Mr. Bonet took cover and hid under a nearby counter as he watched his lifelong dream crumble around him. The bakery could not withstand the pressure from the earthquake's 7.0 magnitude—ultimately leaving Mr. Bonet with nothing but shattered appliances, counters, windows, and dreams.

Regardless of the terminal result of his bakery, Mr. Bonet kissed the ground below him, thankful for still having his life.

As the dust settled, Louis climbed out from beneath the counter and saw nothing but a blanket of dust covering everything in his surroundings. As he searched through the cloud to find an accessible exit, a gold shimmer caught his attention. He said, “It was like a magnetic force pulling me to beauty.” When Mr. Bonet retrieved the artifact from a hole within the crumbled foundation, he discovered it to be a locket.

When we asked Mr. Bonet what happened when he opened the locket, he shook his head, refusing to release the information. As we were trying to find out more information on this mystery locket, we asked where he had placed it. The man’s eyes widened and he pointed to the ground. When we asked him once more, he clutched his hand over his left shoulder, fell to the ground, croaking the words, “C’est ici l’empire de la Mort.”

It brings us great sadness to report that Mr. Bonet went into cardiac arrest at that moment and died shortly thereafter.

We were unable to find out any further information on what we now call, "Paris' Darkest Secret." The general, superstitious public has whispered about it being the necklace that killed him, but it very well could have been the startling occurrences from the earthquake, causing too much distress in an elderly man.

Nevertheless, we do believe that the locket has been placed somewhere in the Catacombs, but we have not found a brave enough man to seek out the gold. Until we find that brave person, the locket will remain Paris' Darkest Secret, or as some are now calling it, 'The Necklace of Death.'

I click the X on the top right corner of the screen and push my chair away from the desk. “’The Necklace of Death’?” I repeat to myself.

Bonet—my mother's maiden name—not a coincidence. Sought after gold?

I'm the connection to Paris' Darkest Secret?

I think I need more than an alarm system.

I have to remember what Alex always tells me—Paris represents my mind. The locket is the dark secret of my own mind. These words he says to me do not make sense. He tells me I’ll understand some day. Instead, I have spent every day for the past year since he told me that trying to figure out what he means. If what he says is true, then Franco is trying to capture a part of my mind. That’s impossible and makes no sense.

The feeling of eyes burning into my back returns. I make a beeline for the elevator and pound the button until the doors glide open. I rush inside and rest my back up against the wall while pressing the button for the bottom floor. With only half a breath, I notice I'm not alone in the elevator.

A tall man, lavishly dressed, light colored hair and eyes looks down at me, nods his head and says, "Let it be."

The strange familiarity of his eyes draws my focus in to take a closer look at him, but the doors glide open and he brushes by me, leaving me frozen behind the closing doors. I press the door button quickly, but by the time the bottom floor of the library re-appears between the slits of the elevator, the man is gone.

I burst out of the library, feeling as though my head is spinning in circles, partially from bewilderment and partially from paranoia.

I can’t go home yet. I need more time to think.

I’ve been dying for a reason to go see Alex’s new office, and I think now is the perfect time to pay him a visit. I’d love to fill him in on my newfound knowledge of, ‘The Necklace of Death’, but he’s probably already quite aware of its name.

I briskly make my way to my car, still anxiously looking over my shoulder. Once I've secured the locks from the inside, I start the car and enter in the name of Alex's office building into my GPS. I bob my head around, waiting for the searching message to be replaced by directions. But the screen turns blue and the text: Location not found appears. Really? I pull my phone out of the middle console and send a text message to Alex asking for the address of his office.

Within seconds he replies, “Why?”

It seems kind of obvious that I'm planning to visit. “So, I can come visit?”

He quickly responds with: “Oh, no. Don't do that. I was actually planning on coming home early today. I'll see you in an hour.”

Yup, this can wait an hour. Or not! I open up the Internet browser on my phone and type in the name of his company.

Nothing comes up.

His company doesn't have a website. I find that hard to believe. It is hard to believe. In fact, I’m not sure what I can believe at this point.

By the time I get through the traffic that appears to already be piling up, I'm sure an hour will have passed by the time I get home anyway. I take a deep breath, trying to diminish my anger. Maybe a long quiet car ride alone won’t be the worst thing.

I tap my fingers along the top of my steering wheel, staring into the glow of the headlights in front of me. Visions of golden lockets and the Catacombs flood my mind with despair. I want to scream. I also want to cry. I want to be free from all of this.

It’s been twenty minutes of crawling along the interstate at fifteen miles per hour. I am never getting home. I call Alex’s phone again, but he doesn’t pick up.

The radio is playing an annoying song, and my blood is starting boil over. Going on forty-five minutes.

Evidently, cussing out the driver in front of me for not keeping up with the slow crawl in front of him doesn’t make the traffic any better. He now has his middle finger plastered against his rearview mirror for my viewing pleasure.

Sixty-five minutes to drive three miles. Unreal. Maybe Alex coordinated that too so I wouldn’t figure out where he really is right now.

I walk through the front door, welcomed by a waft of baked goods and some kind of roast.

"Celia, did you cook?" I ask, walking into the kitchen where I hear pots and pans clashing around.

"Oh, hi, Chloe! I didn't even hear you come in. I'm sorry—I cook when I'm stressed out. At least you don't have to make dinner tonight." She smiles her sweet Celia smile.

"You're planning to stay for dinner then, right?" I reach over and give her a hug.

"I would feel much better here. My house is suddenly starting to feel overwhelmingly large." Her eyes are wide and unfocused. She seems scared and worried, as I would be living alone with these creeps roaming around.

"You are always welcome here. If you want us to make up the spare bedroom for you, I'm happy to do so." I reach for her hand, forcing her to look up at me. "Really. I want you to stay here with us until this all stops."

“You think this will stop?” The hope in her eyes causes a pain in my stomach. I wish I had a good response. But I don’t, so I don’t respond. “It has to stop one way or another, I suppose.” She sighs. I’m not sure what she means by that.

“I guess.”

"So, what were you really up to today?" She raises an eyebrow. Her motherly look makes me feel like I’m pinned up against a wall, but I think I’ll keep the information on ‘The Necklace of Death’ to myself.

"I just needed to do a little research at the library…for class.” I fling my bag off of my shoulder and pull out my notebook. “This AP History class has been torture. I'm just trying to stay ahead of the game," I lie.

"Oh, I didn't realize you were taking history this semester." She tries to take a closer look at my notebook, but I let my hand fall behind my back. As guilty as I feel for lying to Celia, I stopped taking classes last semester. But classes just seem to be the perfect excuse when I need to do something I’d rather not talk about.

I hate lying. I'm so bad at it, especially to someone I love. I force a smile and happily welcome the distraction of the front door opening.

Celia looks down at her watch with a puzzled grimace. "Honey, what are you doing home so early? It's only four o'clock. Are you okay?"

Alex arches an eyebrow with a questioning look. "A better question might be, why are you here and cooking dinner?" He laughs and gives her a kiss on the cheek before she has a chance to respond.

Celia awkwardly looks over at me, probably wondering why I didn't tell Alex she was coming over to watch Sammy. I didn't think this one through, obviously.

"I-ah had to run to the library to get something for my class." I stare past Alex, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt.

"And, what class is that?" he interrogates me with a smirk.

Dammit. He knows.

Celia beats me to the punch and with a sing-song voice says, "AP History."

"Interesting," is all Alex responds with. He clears his throat and thankfully changes the subject. "What did you make for dinner, Mom?"

A cheerful smile spreads across Celia’s freckly cheeks as she lifts the lid off the saucepan. "Your favorite," she says while wafting the scent from the pan to her nose.

"No way, really? A Big Mac?" He laughs in my direction, joking about one of our very first conversations.

"Yes, Alex. I made you a Big Mac?" She chuckles and shakes her head. "I made you fresh Bolognese sauce. I hope it will be suitable for your suddenly odd pallet."

Alex takes the spoon from Celia’s hand and dips it into the sauce. As he brings the spoon up to his lips, we're interrupted by a clatter from the other room. Celia jumps, throwing the dishtowel behind her, and Alex sprints down the hallway as I follow. "Sammy?" I yell.

We hear the noise echoing from his room and Alex busts through his slightly opened door. All standing in shock, we see Sammy having a ball as he whips a broomstick against an upside down trashcan. All three of us are clutching our hands over our chests. All three of us only think the worst now. All three of us are sick of this.

As we all let our clenched hands fall from our chests, a wave of calmness appears to sweep over Alex first as he kneels down by Sammy’s side. "I called the alarm company today, they'll be coming by tomorrow to set it up," he says, giving Sammy a kiss on the top of his head.

"Alex, can we talk for a minute?" I ask.

Celia trades places with Alex and crouches down to play with Sammy.

I pull him down the hall and into our bedroom. As soon as I close the door behind him, I say, "We both know an alarm system isn’t going to do a damn thing." He sighs and combs his fingers through his hair. He always gets nervous when he thinks I’ve come closer to figuring things out. "When were you going to tell me about ‘The Necklace of Death’?"

His eyes narrow before widening. "What?" he asks, seeming confused by what I’m sure he knows about. "Where did you get that information from?"

"Research." I raise my eyebrows emphatically.

He groans in response. "This is exactly why I didn't want to talk about this." His hands slap against the sides of his thighs, and he paces the bedroom in small circles.

"Well, I think we should talk about it, seeing as how I'm in a lot more danger than I realized."

Alex sucks in a deep breath and stops pacing. "Whoa, hold on now. You are not in danger. I will never let anything happen to you. Ever," he says, lowering his head to look me in the eyes. "You believe me, right?"

It’s not that I don’t believe him. I just know what Franco is capable of, constrained in a cell or not. Alex seems to forget about that man’s skills. But I haven’t.

"Yeah. It's just that…you've been acting kind of strange lately. I'm a little troubled by the fact that you didn't want me to come visit you at work, and all of this other creepy stuff going on is really making me feel uneasy."

With no further explanation, he pulls me against his body and holds me tightly. "I know," he whispers above my head.

I should have known he was hiding more secrets. He only ignores my accusations when they're accurate. "What else do I need to know?" I ask.

"There's nothing else you need to know," he says simply before squeezing me a little tighter. "Thank you for understanding, Chlo."

I don't understand the purpose of secrets, and I'm tired of them. If I need to find something out, I have to do it myself.

"You know what? After dinner, I'm taking you to a movie. Celia's staying the night anyway and I doubt she'll mind taking care of Sammy," Alex says with his best attempt at swaying my mind from where it’s planted.

"Sounds good," I smile. It will take my mind off of things for a bit.

***

After placing the last dish in the dishwasher, I walk out into the living room to wait for Alex to finish tucking Sammy in. I find myself staring at the window near the door with an odd feeling—a feeling as if I'm being watched again. I take a step closer to the door, and I come face to face with the two small lights shining into the window once again. Rather than yelling for Alex, I slowly pace toward the lights. If it’s me they want, they won't run. I reach for the door and wrap my hand around the knob. Sounds of jumbled whispers reverberate through the cracks of the door. I reach for the deadbolt but before I can twist it, Alex's hand slams firmly against the door above my head.

"Wait," he says calmly.

I look to the side window out of my peripheral view and see that the lights are gone. He scared them away. Without turning around, I say, "Why? What's wrong?" I attempt to sound calm enough to appear as though I didn't see the lights.

"You forgot your coat. It's supposed to get down to fifty degrees tonight," he says, throwing my coat at me.

I shake my hands in front of my face as if I were scared off by his statement. “Oooh fifty degrees. We should pull out our winter coats,” I joke. At least he didn't see the light. He reaches for the locks and opens the door, allowing me to walk out before him. Within only a couple of steps out, I see a shadow looming close in proximity.

Does he see that too? I wonder.

I look over at Alex to gauge his expression. But trying to assess his thoughts becomes unnecessary as the shadow begins to glow with a tiny light—one that's growing precipitously. Fear encompasses me and I wrap my hands around Alex’s bicep as I hide behind him. “What is it?”

Alex groans, as if annoyed by the situation. He leans over, picks up a rock and throws it at the shadow. “Leave her alone,” he shouts.

The rock bounces on the ground. The sound startles me and I blink. When my eyes reopen, the shadow and its light are gone.

CHAPTER THREE:

DEATH, BIRD, FAMILY

“DAMN,” ALEX SAYS, slamming his hands against the steering wheel. “We’re not going to make it.” He turns up the volume on the radio and searches for the traffic station.

“Twenty-car pileup on Interstate 5. Four mile backup,” were the only words I was able to make out through the annoying static. Looks like we’ll be sitting here for a while.

“Sooo. What now?” I ask. Clearly, we’re not making the movie.

“Now, we sit here.” He throws his head back against the headrest and rolls his eyes. The static gets louder, and he jams his thumb into the volume knob to shut off the radio.

“What do you think that thing was?” I ask with hesitation. He’s pissed off now, and it’s not because of the traffic. It’s because these things or people, whatever they are, are winning at this game.

“Your fears,” he says as if it should be an obvious answer.

“I’m scared of a light?” I laugh a little.

“You know, they aren’t going to hurt you here. You understand that, right?” The words make sense, but the meaning doesn’t. He puts the car in park and shifts his body to face me. “You know how we can drift into each other’s minds. That’s how we coexist here. Right?”

“Yes. That part I understand. Somewhat.”

“When you dream, your mind plays on your hopes and fears. When there is more fear in your life, your mind is clouded with more fear when you dream. Franco is your fear. The more he breaks you down, the more you are letting him in. And if you let him in far enough, he’ll brainwash you—he’ll capture the locket.”

I’ve spent the last five years trying to understand the validity of living in a permanent drift. Alex tries to explain it to me over and over again, but I have trouble comprehending the realism versus the surrealism that only exists within the confines of my mind. Between Franco, the locket, and being followed by Franco for the locket, it’s all driving me past insanity to the point where I might be too sane to understand the insane.

Franco and Alex are both real. I get that. One represents happiness. The other, fear. I’ve let Alex into my mind. He’s created the happiness. But I’ve also let Franco in, and he’s the evil who will eventually corrupt my mind, more than it already is. I can’t let him in any more than he already is. If I do, I’ll supposedly lose the locket—I’ll lose the ability to think for myself, as Alex tells me constantly.

The one thing I am sure of, is that there will never be a cure, and I’ll forever be a prisoner of my own mind—whether that’s living happily, in fear, or both.

“I won’t let him in,” I say, as if it were so simple.

Alex sighs, and I see the sorrow fill his eyes. I hate that he feels bad for me. The look on his face tells me he doesn’t believe that I can control this element of fear that has taken up residency in my mind. I know I’m strong enough to make him go away. I have to be. “He’s an illusion here, nothing more. You and Sammy are safe. I promise.”

It’s not my mind I’m worried about, it’s my physical state of being I fear for. Franco will find me. “Anything else you’d care to share?” I feel an awkward silence growing between us. I know he’s done with his brief explanation. He won’t tell me more than what is necessary for me to know, according to him.

He nods his head dismissively, shooing off my irritated words. “I think I see the cars starting to move ahead.” He places the car back into drive and repositions his body toward the wheel.

“Speaking of Sammy, did you take Thursday off?” I ask.

“I did,” he says. “Anything you want to do?”

I shrug. “Not sure. I have a few ideas though.” I’m trying to sound normal. Do I sound normal? Please don’t start interrogating me. We do this every year. Why can’t I fake excitement? It would be so much easier if I could. I could avoid this.

“Chloe?” Guess I didn’t sound normal. I’m now wishing we weren’t stuck in traffic. I’m starting to feel claustrophobic in this car, even with all of the windows open.

I clear my throat, trying again to sound normal. “I figured we could take him to the zoo and to dinner or something,” I say, keeping my eyes locked on the taillights in front of us.

“Still having a rough time?” he asks, pinching his fingers around the muscle in my shoulder. He looks over at me briefly when the car comes to another stop.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to do something nice for him. Let’s just drop it. Okay?” Just because I was robbed of what was supposed to be the most memorable moment of my life, doesn’t mean I should dwell on it every year. But I do. I’m a dweller. I’m sensitive, and painful memories stick to me like tar.

“Hey.” He places his finger under my chin. “You’re both here. You’re both alive. That’s all that matters now. We should be celebrating that.” He pulls my hand from my lap and squeezes it within his. “Maybe it would help if you talked about it?” He thinks that will be the magic answer to these memories disappearing. It won’t help. I’ve refused to talk about this for the past three years. I know he’s not going to give up on me. We’re now stuck in a car in the middle of completely stopped traffic. He wants me to tell me him my story, and yet he won’t share any of his secrets with me.

“Come on,” he whines a little. “Just tell me what happened. How about I never bring it up again if you tell me the story one time.” Part of me wants to say, you should have been there. If you had been, I wouldn’t have to retell this horrible story. But then the other part of me knows if he could have been there, there’s nowhere else he would have been. This torn world we both live in doesn’t always cooperate with our relationship.

“Maybe it would help if you told me your secret first?” I cock my head to the side and raise my eyebrows. If only bribery could work so easily for me.

“Hmm,” he says, scratching at his chin. “If I say, I’ll consider telling you part of it, will you tell me?”

“I always have to negotiate with you.” I narrow my eyes at the side of his face. I know he can see the look I’m giving him out of his periphery.

I’ve tried to spare him the details on the events surrounding Sammy’s birth. I wouldn’t wish what I went through on anyone—well, maybe someone. My mother. I’ve tried hard to forget. I’ve tried hard to pretend everything was perfect that day. However, it was nowhere near perfect or even good. The day your child is born should be the best day of any mother’s life, but it was the scariest for me.

It was bad enough Charlie told me I had to stay put from thirty-five weeks on until Sammy was born. It wasn't safe for me to be mentally incapacitated for his birth. Understandably so.

I was told that labor would likely start anytime between thirty-seven and forty-two weeks, which meant I had to be away from Alex for up to five weeks or so. Although, it ended up happening the day I reached thirty-seven weeks.

I know this was a nightmare for him. What new dad would be okay with missing the birth of their child? He was sick about it.

“Okay,” I say, with a deep exhale.

“Really? You’re going to tell me?” He looks excited to hear this horror story. Probably because he doesn’t know how horrible it really was.

“I remember waking up with sharp pains in my lower stomach, but they weren't like the pains I had expected to feel, especially with the description Charlie had given me.” He’s nodding his head as if he understands. He couldn’t possibly. “The pains I had were debilitating and they weren't coming and going in waves like they were supposed to. It was constant pain. I remember pressing my fingernails so firmly into the palm of each hand that my hands started to bleed.” Alex places his hand over my knee and gives it a small squeeze. If he thinks what I’ve already said is bad, he’s going to go nuts in a minute. “I wasn’t able to get coherent words out of my mouth, but I managed to let out a loud shriek so Charlie would know I was in trouble. I remember the look on her face. She knew something was wrong—and that was when I knew something was very wrong.”

“What was wrong? Weren’t you just in labor?” Alex asks. I can see the folded lines in his skin pulling along the sides of his eyes.

“I thought so.” I take a breath. I haven’t retold this story. Not once. I’ve tried so hard to put it out of my mind. He was so angry with me after Sammy was born because I wouldn’t give him any of the details. He thought I was mad that he wasn’t there with me. I told him that wasn’t the case, but I don’t think he believed me. I’m not sure why I’m giving in to telling him now, but I guess he deserves to know how his child entered this world.

“Charlie called 9-1-1 and the paramedics arrived within minutes. Living close to the hospital was a blessing at that point. They took my vitals and confirmed my fear that nothing was stable. But I wasn’t sure what they meant by that. Although, from the amount of pain I was in, I was sure I was dying. I heard them say my heart rate was way too fast, and my blood pressure was dropping. That was when they hooked me up to a bunch of portable machines and placed me on the stretcher. I remember them securing an oxygen mask over my nose as I darted my eyes from side to side, looking at everyone, trying to gauge the amount of concern drawn on their faces. They were all speaking so fast that I suddenly couldn't understand a word of what they were saying—then again, I might have been bobbing in and out of consciousness at that point too.”

Alex pulls off the highway and into a gas station and pushes the shifter into park. He twists his body to look at me and pulls my hands off of my lap. “I want to know everything, Chloe. I wish you had told me sooner. I’ve tried to leave you alone about this, but you shouldn’t suffer in silence.” He has not left me alone about this. He asks me every year right before Sammy’s birthday.

I let my eyes drop from his. I can’t confront the sympathy of his eyes as he lives through this for the first time. “The trip in the ambulance was short—maybe two or three minutes. The elevator ride felt like forever as I watched Charlie manually pumping my oxygen and another nurse or doctor clamping their fingers over my wrist. By the time I got into the room, everything was dark around me. I couldn't make anything out. The objects surrounding me were either blacked out or too blurry to focus on.”

“Then what?” he urges me to continue as if he was reading a suspenseful story.

“Images of you popped in and out of my mind. The look on your face was worry, fear and loss. I wondered if you knew what was going on.”

He shakes his head somberly. “No,” he sniffs. “I had no idea.”

“I heard beeping from various machines, I felt needles prick my skin, patches slapped onto different parts of my body, and a piece of fabric tighten around my bicep. That’s when my eyes cleared up for a moment, and I saw you.”

“You saw me?”

“Yeah. You were holding my hand and I began to cry. I closed my eyes and tried to take a deep breath, but the oxygen I inhaled must have been some kind of anesthesia, because everything went numb.”

“Chloe…” I don’t want an explanation or an inaccurate reason. I know what I saw.

I place my hand over his lips. “Let me finish.” I look back up at him. “When I woke up, I saw you again. You were standing beside the bed, holding Sammy. You smiled at me, and it was then that I knew everything would be okay. I had no idea how you were there, but it didn’t matter to me. You were there, and so was Sammy. The smile on your face was one of a proud father. You handed Sammy to me. He looked like a combination of a doll and an angel. I felt my heart grow and melt at the same time. Tears poured from my eyes and a smile came naturally. I tried to ask what happened, but everything quickly became fuzzy and then black, again.”

“I wasn’t there.” His eyelids become heavy as disappointment clouds over his gaze.

“I believe a part of you was.” I place my hand on top of his. “When I woke up, I was in a small room with one nurse and lots of monitors surrounding me. I remember asking them what happened. I was told everything was fine now, but I needed some more rest. I was so angry, I started yelling for you and Sammy, but she placed the oxygen mask back over my mouth and nose, muffling the words coming from my mouth. I tried to sit up, but the pain was too severe. I couldn't move.”

“That’s horrible, Chlo.” He looks up at me, and the tears are filling his reddened eyes. “Did you find out what caused all of it?”

“Yes. After I calmed down, I removed the oxygen mask from my face and called out to the nurse sitting on the opposite side of the room. I asked her to confirm that Sammy was okay. I also asked her where you were."

“But I wasn’t there,” he says again.

“I know that’s what everyone thinks. The nurse told me Sammy was fine, but there was no man who claimed to be my husband anywhere. I think she chalked my disillusioned thoughts up to the amount of drugs they were pumping through me.”

“Maybe that is what happened.” He shrugs. Even he doesn’t believe me. It’s not important anymore. “Did you get an explanation of what caused the difficulties?”

"I suffered from a major hemorrhage and lost a lot of blood. I had to get a couple of transfusions just to stay alive. The cord was wrapped tightly around Sammy’s neck and it caused my placenta to tear.” The color on Alex’s face drains. He looks like I just told him the world ended five years ago and I’m just telling him now.

“Thank God you were at the hospital,” he finally manages to mumble.

“I died for a few minutes.” The words completely blurt out of my mouth. How does someone say that with a straight face? Am I so numb to psychological pain that I can say it without feeling upset or bad for myself?

“What?” I just pulled another rug out from below his feet. This is exactly why I’ve kept this to myself for the past four years. His eyes are darting back and forth between mine, and I can sense the slightest hint of anger within his pupils. “You kept that from me?” And the anger has now turned to hurt. It’s not like he could have done anything for me. And no, I don’t feel better now that I’ve talked about it.

“You died.” Alex looks like a light bulb went off in his head, as if me telling him I died was the answer to some unanswered question. “This makes sense now.”

“What makes sense?” How can me dying on a delivery table for four minutes make sense?

“You come back to life,” he says, with a lost look in his eyes.

“I came back to life, you mean. See?” I pinch my own arm with a slight grin. “I’m alive and well now. It’s been four years, Alex.” I’ve tried to move on from this, which is why I have chosen not to speak about it.

“What else happened that day?” Oh good. Are we moving on from the zombie theory? I huff with exasperation.

“Well, my mother came to visit me. That was a fun time.”

“How did she know you were there?”

“Who knows? She came trotting in, in her usual show pony way. Her tears were her biggest accessory. They were so fake, they were probably eye drops. All she wanted to know was who had impregnated me. She sat down at the edge of my bed with her cell phone and told me to tell her who raped me. I looked at her dumfounded. She never believed me about you. Most of what came out of my mouth was just a fib to her. She actually thought I had been raped. I told her to get out. But she wouldn’t leave, of course.

“Chloe?” His voice sounds hoarse, worried, and angered. This conversation is getting worse by the moment. “What if I did rape you in that cell?” The words hit me like a wrecking ball. The thought never entered my mind.

“You wouldn’t.” I try to force laughter. But it sounds as fake as it feels. I knew there was a chance of putting myself in danger with him in that cell. But if I were conscious, I would have consented to being with him. So, it couldn’t really be classified as rape. “It’s only rape if I didn’t want it.” I try to explain it to him, taking some of the agonizing worry from his mind.

“It would have been rape if you did not consent, and especially if you were unconscious—like you were in that cell.” I have nothing to respond with. It’s a technicality I’d rather not consider.

“I don’t care. I love you. And if I were conscious, I would have agreed. And I wanted nothing more than to be with you in my unconscious. Just forget about it, okay?” Why do I even have to do this?

“This has to end, Chloe.” He places the car back into reverse, ripping our conversation apart.

“Alex?”

He ignores my questioning and pulls back out onto the highway. The traffic is gone and so is his mind.

“What else did your mother say?” His cheeks are red, and his nostrils are flaring. We’re going at least twenty miles over the speed limit, and I don’t know where this conversation is going to end up.

“Nothing really. I told her I was married and I didn’t owe her any explanations. She told me she wanted Sammy to be a part of her life. And I know exactly what she meant by that. So, I had her removed from my room and my life. I decided I was going to put a restraining order against her. Security finally arrived and removed her.” I grip my hands around the middle console and my door handle. “Alex, slow down. This was four years ago. Do I have to remind you?”

“You’re only seven years old,” he says with his unblinking eyes.

“What the hell are you talking about, Alex?” I slap his arm. “Pull the damn car over until you can get your mind straight.”

He pulls off into another gas station. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. My thoughts got away from me for a minute.” He takes a few short breaths and closes his eyes before letting his head fall against his steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”

“Why did you just say I’m only seven?”

“I don’t know.” He grips his hands around the steering wheel. “This is so out of control.” That’s all he ever says, and yet we’ve lost our grip on control so many times that there’s no purpose of even pointing out the obvious anymore.

“Take a deep breath or something,” I say. I have no clue how else to calm him down from this.

He lifts his head and looks over at me. “I understand why you don’t return her calls now. I’m sorry for pushing on that matter.”

“My mother?”

“Yes.”

“It’s fine.” I shrug off his attempt to tell me he’s been wrong. “You were there, you know. In the hospital?”

“What do you mean?” I get how awful it feels when someone tells you something about yourself that you’re unaware of. It’s something Alex and I have been dealing with for way too long.

“After my mother was dragged out, another nurse walked in with Sammy cradled in her arms. His tiny little nose and perfectly pursed lips flawlessly resembled yours. I removed his little knit hat and found a few tiny sprouts of blond curly hair. It was as good of a moment as I could have had without you there. I lay for hours, holding Sammy, smoothing my fingers over his silk-like skin and inhaling the newness of this little person we created.

“I thought you just said I was there?”

“I’m getting to it,” I laugh. “Charlie came in as soon as I was allowed to have visitors. She was bawling her eyes out, telling me how scared she was of losing me. I went to hand her Sammy, and she told me to wait. That’s when you walked in. Charlie said, ‘I think someone else should get to hold him first.’”

“How was I—?”

I shrug, because I don’t have an explanation. “Charlie placed her hand on your back and directed you in my direction. She said, ‘He is having a pretty good day today. Not perfect, but good enough.’”

“I wish I could remember,” he says, finally admitting that he doesn’t know everything his psychical being is doing. His memory for his real life doesn’t carry over to his mental state. He isn’t aware of what he’s doing, or what state of mind he’s in.

I knew exactly what Charlie meant when she said that. Alex was having a half there, half not day. I didn't always mind those days. It was as if his mind was there, but he couldn't express himself verbally. “You walked over to my side and sat down on the swivel chair. Your hand swept over my arm and up to my cheek. Your face was expressionless, but your eyes were glassy. You reached over to Sammy, placed your hand over his head and looked at me. You placed your other hand over mine. I knew what you wanted me to know. You were there, this was our family, and we are all connected. We sat that way all night, and when I wasn't holding Sammy, you were standing guard over his bassinette.

“Wow.”

“So, there’s your long awaited for explanation and story on why that day was so hard on me.” I shift my body forward. “Now you can tell me your secret.” I’m somewhat surprised I got that entire story out. Hearing myself retell it now doesn’t seem as scary as it did that day. Maybe I should have talked about it sooner.

CHAPTER FOUR:

A BIRD’S REFLECTION

MOVING, AGAIN. I'm really starting to despise packing and unpacking. I get the feeling that we'll never be settled, which is the complete opposite of what I really want in my life. I hate moving, I hate packing, and I hate feeling displaced. Sammy is giving us a hard time because he made a friend next door and he doesn't want to leave him. He's been whimpering and trying to bargain with us. It's breaking our hearts. I know we have to leave—we aren't safe here, clearly. If I ever see another one of those blaring lights again, it will be too soon.

"That's the last of them, Chlo." Alex says, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Celia, are you ready to go?"

"Yup," she says while taking one last look around. She's probably spent more time here than her own house lately.

***

We pull up to a complex—one of those new ones with the yellow siding, white trim, and perfectly manicured lawns. Alex thinks that if we move into an apartment rather than a house, we'll blend in more, and it will be harder for them to track us down. He rented the largest apartment they had, to make sure there was room for all of us, and Celia, if she needed to stay with us.

We're on the third floor. There are no elevators and we have over thirty large boxes.

Perfect.

It took a few hours and a few nice neighbors to give us a hand, but we're all moved in. Alex, Celia, and I are sprawled across the two couches, motionless and exhausted. "Never. Moving. Again," I croak.

"You said that last time too," Alex chuckled. "Hey, at least we'll get a good night’s sleep tonight. It's been weeks without that."

"True," I say. Sammy actually voluntarily went to sleep on his own tonight. He's been up and in our bed every night for the past month, scared of the light monsters. We worry that he has a sixth sense about this stuff and knows more than he should at four years old. However, if that is the case—he was happy to be here and not afraid of his new room. So maybe that should give us some comfort too.

***

I slept amazingly last night. I didn't move an inch all night. I had dreams about running through fields of flowers, rather than nightmares of blaring ghostly lights that belonged to the hands of fog. I can see Alex slept well too since he's still snoring up a storm. It's nice to see him sleeping for a change. Usually he goes to bed after I do and wakes up way before I do. I don't know how anyone can function on that little amount of sleep.

I slowly prop myself up in bed—careful not to budge the mattress. As my eyes peer out over the end of the bed, I see Sammy asleep with his pillow and blanket in the doorway of our room. Confused and somewhat concerned as to why he would be asleep there, I clamber out of bed and tiptoe over to him. I slide my arms underneath his tiny body and scoop him up with his blanket and pillow. By the time I place him down on his bed, his eyes are wide open. He doesn't say anything. He just looks at me with apprehension.

"Are you okay, baby? What were you doing in our room? Is something wrong with your new room?" I ask.

"I don't like my room, Mommy," he says, turning over onto his side, looking away from me.

"Why don't you like your room, Sammy?" I ask, tugging at his shoulder so he turns back over.

He struggles out of my grip and buries his face into his pillow. "I don't like the bird in the tree outside."

"What bird?" I walk over to the window to look at the tree. There is no bird in the tree. I can't see what he must be talking about.

"He's gone now. I think he got hurt, because he flew into the window. I didn't see him again after that. But I didn't like him."

"Oh, honey. Sometimes, birds see their reflection and think it's another bird. He must not have realized it was a window.” I close the blinds and peel down the cover on his bed. “I'll tell you what, I'll go downstairs and check to see if it's there or not. If it's not there, I'm sure it's because he's perfectly fine and flew off to be with his family." I smile to hide my unease. I kiss him on the cheek and pull the comforter over his body and up to his chin. "Stay right here. I'll be right back."

I tighten the sash on my robe and step into my flip-flops before unlatching the four locks Alex installed on our front door yesterday. I trot down the three floors, walk out the front door and over to the mulched area beneath our window.

Crap.

The thing's dead.

What am I supposed to tell Sammy? He'll be devastated if I tell him the bird died.

I'm not going to tell him.

I do the next best thing and dig my toes into the mulch and start kicking dirt over the poor thing. I'll consider this the bird’s burial service. Once it's completely covered, I head back inside and up the stairs. As I enter through the front door, Sammy's waiting for me with his arms crossed.

"What were you doing down there?" he interrogates with a scowl stretched across his lips.

"Nothing, sweetie, I was making sure there was no bird." I pull him into me, wrapping my arm around his body.

"Well, was he there?" he asks.

"Nope, nothing. Just a bunch of dirt.” I urge him into the kitchen and away from any of the windows. “Hey, how about some breakfast? Do you want me to make your favorite? French toast?”

He gives me the same look Alex does when he knows I'm lying. His eyebrow is arched and that cute little crooked grin always has a way of deceiving me. "Okay, Mommy. I'll have French toast." He rolls his eyes.

"What's going on in here?" Alex walks in, rubbing his half lidded eyes.

"Mom just buried a bird," Sammy says with an angry flat tone.

My mouth gapes open, and I roll my eyes toward the ceiling, searching for the next thing to say. How did he know?

"Chlo?" Alex says, followed by a nervous laugh.

Why couldn't we all just wake up to a drama free morning, just once?

"A bird flew into Sammy's window last night and he saw it fall after." I sigh. "He seems to think I just buried it outside." I widen my eyes, hinting for Alex to play along.

"Sammy, I'm sure Mommy didn't bury the bird, and I'm sure it flew off after it hit your window. There's nothing to worry about, little man."

"I saw her," Sammy says, gritting his teeth together. He drops his fork down on his placemat and scurries out of the kitchen.

"What do you think this is all about?" Alex asks me.

"Who knows," I say, trying to downplay my true concern.

I huff loudly while cracking the three eggs into a bowl and then beat them with all my fury. Alex's arms wrap around my neck and his lips press against my temple. "Baby, it's going to be okay." He kisses me again. "I promise."

I drop the whisk as the tears begin to pour out of my eyes. "I didn't want this life for him, Alex. I've tried so hard to stay away from trouble, but it follows us. Why us? I don't understand," I cry.

Alex turns me around, ignoring the drippy yolk falling to the ground. "There's no danger here. It was a bird, and you're overreacting."

I take a deep breath, realizing he's right. It was just a bird—just a bird that flew into Sammy's window and fell to its death. Yeah, that's normal.

Just as I place the plates down on the table, I hear Sammy shrieking from his room.

What now?

We both run to his room, to find him standing at the window on his tiptoes. "Sammy, what is going on?" I ask.

"There was another bird," he cries, pointing down to the ground.

I move Sammy away from the window and peek outside. It's dead. Another one.

***

We found three more dead birds this week. I looked it up online and found a couple possible scenarios, but the most common answer I found was that it was mating season for birds—sometimes they see their reflection and they'll think it's another bird. I find it all somewhat strange since I've never had a bird fly into my window before. I’m hoping mating season doesn't last long, because Sammy has taken up permanent residence in our bed every night again and that has killed our mating season.

The front door opens quietly and closes just as softly. I glance down at my watch and see it's just after ten. I walk out into the living room and see Alex placing his bag on the hook and loosening the collar of his shirt.

"It's late," I whisper.

"You're awake?" he asks, opening his arms to me.

"I was worried and wondering where you were."

"I had to work late." He rakes his fingers through his gelled hair and plops down on the sofa.

I give him the look. The look that tells him, I know he's not working where he says he's working. How long does he think I'm really going to play dumb for? He dodges my visits, won't give me an address, works odd hours, and there has never been a folder, calculator, pen, or pencil in his bag.

He pulls me down onto his lap and gives me a look—a look I can't be angry at. His crooked grin, large blue eyes and the scent of coconut still have me caught in a spell. He wraps his arms around me and presses his lips into mine, slowly and deliberately, forcing me to forget about my internal accusations. "How was your day?" His words vibrate against my lips.

I don’t want to talk about my day. I want stay like this and forget about life. I ignore his question, allowing my lips to get carried away on his. I let my bathrobe slip off of my shoulders, which makes him forget about his question. I unbutton his shirt slowly, painfully. My pace isn’t quick enough for him.

With one swift move of his hands, I’m on my back and he’s hovering over me, kicking his pants off. He pulls the throw blanket over us and allows his warm body to rest on my cool skin. His lips dance below my ear, sending chills from my toes to the roots of my hair. His nose grazes along the line of my cheek and his eyes melt into mine. I can see the world in his sparkling blue irises—I can see pain, worry, fear, and everything else he’s hiding as well. I love those eyes, but I hate the pain they try to cover. His hands wander around my body, warming every inch his body isn’t covering. Our worlds connect, and he’s mine and I’m his. There are no secrets; there are no fears, pain, sadness, or worry. It’s just us. It’s just pleasure, happiness, and love—undeniable, relentless, and indescribable love.

He sweeps the hair off of my neck and trails his lips down my neck. “Nothing else matters when I’m with you. Everything around us becomes a blur, and it can stay that way. We just need to focus on Sammy and us and forget about what’s circling around our lives. It just doesn’t matter right now.”

I nod, agreeing, and I rest my head in the crook between his bicep and chest. "We can pretend nothing else matters after I tell you Sammy got sent home from preschool an hour early."

I feel his chest pull in and his lungs fill with air that he holds onto for a few seconds. "Why?" I pull myself off of him and position myself between the couch and his legs. "Did he do something wrong?"

"I guess he was scaring all of the other children. He was telling them about the birds that keep flying into his window and then falling to their death. His story didn't go over well among a bunch of four and five year olds."

Alex pulls himself up and rests his feet on the ground and his elbows over his knees. "What are we going to do?"

"Close his curtains?" I laugh. "I don't know anymore. He's too smart to fool."

"Did you speak to Celia today?" Alex asks.

"No, I didn't have a chance. You didn't hear from her?"

"No." He reaches for his phone and unlocks the screen, checking the display screen. "No messages either." He dials her number and presses the phone up to his ear. He nods his head to what I'm assuming to be each ring. "Shit.” He slides the phone back into his pocket. “I have to go check on her."

"Okay, don't worry. I'm sure she's fine. She’s probably just sleeping." I pace around the living room, thinking of possible scenarios, twirling a strand of hair around my forefinger. Alex stops me midstride and grips his fingertips into my shoulders. "Lock the door and go stay with Sammy. I'll be back in a bit." He kisses my forehead and races out the front door.

I pace some more until I hear a slight moan from my bedroom. Sammy must be having another nightmare, poor thing. I walk into my room and my eyes focus on the back of Sammy's head. He's sitting straight up, facing the window. His behavior is starting to remind me of one of those kids from a horror movie. Then again, I sort of feel like I'm constantly living in a horror movie.

"Sam?" I whisper quietly, placing my hand over his shoulder. "Baby, are you okay?" Just as I reach my hand out for his shoulder, I see eight pairs of eyes—not human eyes—bird's eyes. They're lined up in a perfect row, flapping their wings as fast as humming birds, staring directly into our window. My initial instinct is to slap my hand over Sammy's eyes in an attempt to prevent him from seeing these awful birds gawking at him, but he pulls my hand off of his face and turns to look at me with seriousness and an edge of maturity a four-year-old shouldn't have.

"What do they want, Mommy?"

"Sammy, why did you open the blinds? Didn't Daddy and I tell you to keep those closed at night?" I don’t have an answer for him.

"Yes, but—"

"No but's. I want those blinds kept closed, and that's it."

Those damn birds aren't mating. They're here to give me a warning. Of what I don't know—don’t want to know.

CHAPTER FIVE:

AN OLD FRIEND WITH NEW HABITS

"CREAM AND two sugars please," I say to the barista.

I keep looking out of the corner of my eye and nodding my head at my coffee date. She seriously needs to get her decades straight. It's embarrassing to be seen with her—not that she cares, clearly. She chopped all of her hair off into a bob. Tight curls line her face. Dark lipstick, dark blush, a fake mole over the left part of her mouth and a casual lace flapper dress. And her attire is complete with black Mary Jane stilettos.

Everyone is staring at her, probably wondering what rock she just climbed out from under. These monthly coffee dates are getting painful. She used to be so normal compared to this. Although, I wouldn’t have considered her normal then.

She notices my sneer and grins at me. "You hate when I dress like this, don't you?" Kiera says. She’s doing this to torture me. I should have known.

"Well, can't you remember what decade you're in? It's not that hard." I roll my eyes.

"Oh, Cuz. If only you just let go of your control issues and enjoyed your freedom like I do, you'd be a happier person," she says. Maybe if you were being followed by so-called-salesmen and black birds all of the time, you wouldn’t think you were so free. Why does she get to live like a feather—floating free without a care in the world?

"Kiera, I have a son—a family. I can't just go decade hopping every day like you do."

"Sucks to be you!" She squeaks.

"You're obnoxious." I stifle a laugh.

"So, what's new? How is the little rug-rat and Alex?" she asks.

"You know I hate when you call him that." I sigh. "We're all having a bit of a rough time. We have a bird situation.

“A bird situation?” She laughs. “Did they take Big Bird off of CBS?”

“Very funny. But no. We have these huge black birds that keep flying into our windows and then dropping to their death. It's creepy, and Sammy has been sleeping in our bed for weeks now."

"That sucks for you and Alex." She wiggles her eyebrows and snickers. "Wait.” She stops laughing. “Did you say birds were flying into his window? What kind of bird?"

"Why does it matter?" I ask. “Oh. I get it. You’re doing that patronizing thing again. I don’t know why I even bother talking to you sometimes.” I press the rim of the coffee cup up to my lips and take a long sip.

Kiera places her hands down firmly on the table and leans forward. "What kind of bird, Chloe?" Her voice turns stern.

I place my cup down. I’m just waiting for her to bust out another joke "I don't know. They look like crows I guess."

Her pupils become small and her eyes become large. She swallows hard and brushes a loose curl out of her face before hiding behind her large coffee mug.

"What's with the look?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at her. She clearly has something to say.

"I don't have—" she pauses. "It's really nothing.” She places her cup down on the table and pushes the chair out from below her, causing a loud scratching noise against the floors. “Want to go shopping or something?"

Twenty minutes is about all I can take of her. "No, thanks. I have to get home. Celia's having a rough time and I told her I'd only be gone for a bit."

"Oh, I forgot to ask. How is she feeling now?" How does she think she’s feeling? She got beat to a pulp and was in the hospital for a week.

"She'll be okay. She's almost completely healed and she's doing what she can to keep busy."

"That's good. I can't believe that happened to her just from falling off the front step." She says, nodding her head in disbelief. I should have thought of a more believable story. No one gets that hurt from falling off a stair.

"Yeah. Crazy." I focus my eyes on my coffee mug to avoid looking at her. "Well, I guess I’ll see you in a few weeks." I bring my coffee cup and hers to the front counter and return to the table for my coat and purse. Kiera has her hands on her hips and her head is cocked to the side.

“Tell me,” she demands.

If I knew what to tell her, I still wouldn’t tell her. “Tell you what?” I say, adjusting my purse over my shoulder.

She nods her head. “You should really learn to breathe once in a while. You’d feel better.” She leans over and gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Love ya, Cuz.”

I have forgotten what it’s like to be able to breathe—freely, anyway. My chest usually feels so tight and my mind is frequently so cloudy that I can hardly enjoy these moments of my life. I need real. I need stable. I need a hard surface to keep my feet on. Because this lucid dream I’m living in is turning into thick fog made up of dark clouds.

I watch Kiera strut out of the coffee shop. As she turns around the front door, she disappears. Part of me is jealous of her freedom. But, I wouldn’t give up Alex or Sammy for anything.

I open my car door and step one foot inside before I realize there's something on my seat—something I didn't place there. I take my leg back out and crouch my head inside, looking around at the rest of the car. Nothing was taken, nothing was moved and it doesn't even look like someone was in here. I lift up the foreign object, a flashlight, and inspect it for the logo—another object with no significant meaning.

Screw this. I’m going to the police. No one else wants to give me answers. I’ll go get them myself.

I drive the three blocks down to the police station and have my foot out the door before I've even shut down the ignition completely. I narrow my eyes to see clearer into the distance, noticing the black Jeep Wrangler at the end of the parking row. Normally I would assume it's someone else's, but I can vaguely make out the surfer decal on the back left window. All I can hope is that I’m not piecing together what I seem to think I am.

I open the heavy double paned glass door and follow through to the next set of double doors. I greet the large burley woman with dark hair and dark eyes sitting behind a bulletproof glass window with only a small opening to fit a hand through. Without noticing any other way for her to hear me, I duck down to speak into the hand hole. "Um—I need to speak to someone about an item that was dropped into my car while I was parked outside of a coffee shop."

I hear automatic locks unhitch and the metal door on my left creak open slowly. An officer—a two-hundred-pound man with a thick black mustache and matching eyebrows—hovers over me by at least a foot and a half. "What seems to be the problem, ma’am?"

"I ah—I found this flashlight in my car. Someone dropped it into my window while I was parked at a coffee shop. Normally I would think it was just an accident, but I found the same type of flashlight outside of the front door of my house a few weeks ago, as well. It's unsettling, and I wanted to know if you had any information on the company, Oncarf. The name is engraved on the other side of the flashlight," I say.

"Oncarf, huh?" the officer chuckles to himself. "You're Levette's wife, aren't you?" he snorts.

"Excuse me?" I say, bewildered. "Is my husband here or something? I saw his car out front."

The officer laughs again a bit harder. He waves his hand at me to follow him through the metal doors. "Have a seat over there,” He points at a desk in a bullpen. “He'll be back in a few minutes."

"Where is he? His car is out front? Is he in trouble?" I ask.

The entire room of cops laugh, and I feel my cheeks redden as I realize that I'm the butt of their joke. But, I don't get it. Or, maybe I do. I sit down at the desk where I was directed to sit. I feel anger grow within me as my eyes focus on two picture frames on the desk. One of them is Alex and me on our wedding day, and the other is of Sammy on his first birthday. I place my hand around the backward name plaque and flip it around to face me. I want to say this explains so much, but it really doesn't explain anything at all.

I'm grinding my teeth, tapping my leg and drumming my fingers loudly against the metal desk. All of the cops are staring at me with sly grins. I hear a couple of them talking about the trouble Alex is going to be in tonight. Hearing the snickers is causing a fiery heat to fill my cheeks.

The large doors fly open and I hear Alex's voice yell, "Hey guys, anyone want coffee? I went for a—"

Busted. Shock and awe doesn't quite describe the look on his face. He sets the coffees down on the first desk he passes and races to my side, falls to his knees and shoves his head into my lap. "Don't hate me," he pleads.

"Is this a joke?" I ask, lifting his head from my lap. Everyone around us is chanting, "Levette's gonna get it." It's infuriating me more.

"How long was this going to go on, Alex? You've been lying to me for months!" I yell.

Before Alex has a chance to explain anything, I'm assuming what must be his boss walks over to him, places his large club like hand over his shoulder and mutters, "See you tomorrow. Good luck, son."

"Chlo, let's go," he says, as he pulls me up from his chair and leads us to the front entrance.

As soon as my feet hit the pavement of the parking lot, I begin yelling. I'm not sure if anything that's coming out of my mouth is making any sense, but I just feel like yelling right now. Alex continues to try and pull me as far away from the station as possible, but I can't help the increasing volume of my voice.

He places his finger over my lips and hushes me. "Let me talk." He wraps his hand firmly around mine. "Look. You know we're being followed, right? You know something is after us. This isn't new. I need to keep you and Sammy safe, Chloe. And having the police on my side is a necessity when it comes to the danger that's always lurking in our shadows. I know how much you worry, and I knew if I told you I was joining the police force, you would be sick and worried about me every day. I didn't want to do that to you. I figured if you thought I was safe at some accounting firm, you'd feel more like you were living a somewhat normal life.” His eyes study mine, waiting for a response or a reaction. I don’t know how to respond. He’s been lying to me.

"You lied to me, Alex." I sniffle and wipe a falling tear from my eye. "You promised me you'd never lie to me. You swore when I asked you, too. But you did it anyway."

I want to be angry at him and I want to keep yelling until I'm blue in the face, but I know why he did this. He's not cheating on me. He doesn't have a drinking problem or a gambling addiction. He's trying to keep us safe. How can I ridicule him for that? Everything he said about me worrying is true and valid. But, now I know.

"Baby, I'm sorry. You know how much I want to protect you and Sammy. You're my life and I'll do anything to make the crazy life we have seem as normal as possible. You can ask me anything, and I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

"How were you getting coffee if your car was parked out front?" I ask.

He laughs and tucks a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. "I tell you to ask me anything, and that's your question?" He pulls my head in and kisses my forehead. "You see that cruiser right there?" he asks, pointing to the car behind us.

"Yes."

"That's mine." He smiles and straightens collar.

"So, what—am I supposed to call you officer from now on?" I grin despite myself.

"Hmm—I wouldn't mind that." He winks.

I slap him on the shoulder and he pulls me up against him, allowing me to feel metal and other miscellaneous objects strapped across his body. "I suddenly feel a lot safer," I say. Kind of.

He presses his lips against mine. "You are a lot safer. Trust me." As his thought ends, a new one arises. He wraps his hands around my waist and pushes me outward. "What were you doing here anyway?”

I pull the flashlight out of my back pocket and slap it into his hand. "It was dropped into my car when I was having coffee with Kiera today. I was sick of wondering what it was or where it was coming from, so I came here to see if I could get any information on the company name. Apparently, Ocnarf has been heard of at the station. Care to explain?" I raise my eyebrows.

"Why didn't you call me first?" He frowns.

"Why didn't you tell me you were working for the police?" I retort.

"Touché." He bows his head in defeat.

***

I can't believe he was hiding the police force from me. Yes, the thought behind it is nice and I feel fortunate to be so well protected. But if we're so protected, how did Celia get attacked? I don't think they have any idea what Ocnarf is, and I'm pretty sure whomever or whatever it is was the cause of Celia's accident. Alex told me we were safe here. Either he was very wrong and misjudged Franco’s abilities, or he was trying to keep me from the edge of insanity.

Alex unlocks the doors to our apartment and we watch as Celia struggles to push herself up from the couch. Alex runs over to her side and eases her arm around his shoulder. "How's it going, Mom? You seem worse than you were yesterday?"

"No, I'm just stiff. Sammy's taking a nap, so I figured I'd take a rest too. What are you doing home so early?"

"I ah—my boss gave me the afternoon off, so I called to see where Chloe was."

I know he wouldn't want Celia to know where he really works, so I play along. "Sammy's taking a nap? He hasn't taken a nap in over three months," I say.

"He went into your bedroom about an hour ago and told me he was taking a nap. I figured he was tired," she explains.

I walk down the hallway, unsure of what to expect. I don't think he's really taking a nap. I open the door that's never normally closed, and I find Sammy standing at the window, talking. The door creaks as I push it open and he grips his fingers around the window and slams it shut before spinning around to face me with a guilty look.

CHAPTER SIX:

A BAD PLAN

"WHO WERE YOU just speaking to?" I ask, running over to the window. "Are you talking to the tree?" I laugh, feeling relieved to see nothing but the tree outside.

"No," he replies simply with a squeaky voice. "I was telling Ocnarf to leave us alone. I was explaining to him that he was scaring you and Daddy and that he needed to stop."

"Alex," I yell into the other room. "Come here." He flies around the door, followed by Celia limping behind. "What's going on?"

"Sammy, tell Daddy who you were just speaking to," I say.

"I was telling Ocnarf to leave you and Mommy alone," he repeats.

Alex looks at me and kneels down before Sammy, pulling him over. "What does Ocnarf look like?" Alex asks him.

Sammy giggles as if Alex just asked him the most ridiculous question ever. "Daddy, you're silly. He looks like a bird." He laughs again, nodding his head at Alex.

Alex falls from his squatting legs on to his butt and pulls Sammy onto his lap. "Where did you hear the name Ocnarf?"

"Hmm—I don't remember," he replies, scratching his head, while appearing to try and remember this detail.

"Celia, can you stay here with him for a minute, and don't let him talk to any more birds?"

I pull Alex by the arm. I drag him outside and over to the pile of dead birds. “What the hell is this?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Franco is behind this. You know that. Don’t you?” I ask pointedly.

“There’s more to this than Franco.”

I squeeze Alex’s arm. “Tell me what you know.” I can’t stop my eyes from filling with tears. “We’ve been running from God knows what for four years now. I can’t keep doing this. We need this to stop.” I feel like we’ve hit a brick wall. Both of us just keep repeating that this needs to end, but we don’t have a solution. Or at least, I don’t.

He drops his head and squats up against the side of the apartment. “The only way this is going to stop is if you are able to clear your own mind.” Is this supposed to be some kind of insight? Is he giving me a hint?

“What? What do you mean? How am I supposed to clear my mind? How clear does it have to be?”

“Completely.”

“So what? Do I have to be hypnotized or something? What exactly do you mean by that? Can you give me some clarity?” My voice has elevated into a shout, and Alex pulls me to the side of the apartment building, away from the people sitting on the benches in front of the main entrance.

“You were hypnotized once, Chloe. Look what happened then.”

“I was a child.”

“A child with living nightmares. A child, whose happiness was stolen. Your mind was compromised. It’s still being kept hostage.

“What are you saying, Alex?” I cry. “Are you saying none of this is real? My life isn’t what I think it is?”

He shakes his head, but I can’t tell if it’s remorse for telling me this or my lack of understanding. He leans down and looks me in the eyes. “I am real. Sammy is real. This place we are in, is not.” Feels pretty real to me. Looks pretty real. What isn’t real?

“So, now what?” I snap.

“Now, we go do what we’ve been putting off for years.”

“What?”

“It’s time to face Franco.” He slides his hands into his pockets and shrugs his shoulders. “He needs to free the control over your mind. It’s the only way to really fix things. There’s no more room for temporary fixes. We’ve gone too far, and there’s no going back.”

I can’t understand where he’s going with his words except one thing, and that’s Franco. And facing him. “Fine.” I head toward the front door. “I’ll go. Alone. There’s no point in you going anyway. I’ll go get my mind back from him. I’ll tell him to snap his fingers and pull me out of the hypnosis, or whatever the hell he’s done to me.”

Alex bolts after me and grabs my arm to turn me around. “Chlo.” He loosens his grip and looks me straight in the eyes. “It’s not that easy. If he doesn’t get what he wants, he’s not going to free you. He’s holding your mind hostage.”

“So then, what? What, Alex? What are we supposed to do? Live our life in fear. Live being watched, followed, tormented? I don’t want that. I don’t.”

“No. That isn’t what I want.” I can see the frustration building within him. He looks up toward the sky, closes his eyes, and shakes his head. “I guess it’s time.”

“What? Time for what? And don’t say, nothing.”

“We’ll go to Franco. But we’re going together, and we’re not drifting there. We’re taking a plane.”

“What’s the difference anyway?” I shove my hands into my back pockets. “It’s not you he wants. It’s me.”

“That’s not completely true,” he says.

“You know…the way you’ve been talking lately is starting to resemble Franco’s mind games. I know you are hiding things from me. I try to ignore it. I try to pretend you aren’t lying to me some of the time. Maybe you’re trying to protect me, but it hurts me to know that you aren’t honest and we aren’t on the same page. We’re married. We’re supposed to be a team.”

He tugs on my elbows and pulls me toward him. “We are a team. And I love you so much that I don’t care how angry you get with me about this stuff. You could never convince me not to protect you the way I am.”

***

“Do you think he knows about Ocnarf?” I ask, pulling a change of clothes from the closet.

“I’m sure,” he says.

Just as I say the name out loud, I rip the flashlight out of Alex's back pocket. I bring it over to the mirror and hold it up. Just as I say the name out loud, I have a crazy premonition. Oncarf backwards is Franco. I press my head against the mirror in defeat.

Alex takes the flashlight from my hand and holds it back up to the mirror. "You have to be shitting me," he groans. "An entire police department couldn't figure this out, and you have a random thought that clears everything up."

"Maybe I should have been the one to join the force." I smirk. "Do you think he was behind Celia's accident too?"

The second my words settle into his mind, he turns red.

He doesn’t respond. He just shakes his head in dismay. He must think he let us all down. We don’t think that, though. He can be so hard on himself.

He throws the flashlight across the room, and it breaks into pieces when it hits the wall. "I'm calling one of the guys to come stay here with Celia and Sammy."

He pulls his shirt off and whips it onto the bed. I want to think he's being ridiculous and going overboard, but he’s not. Even though Franco is locked in an abandoned cell in Paris and there isn't much he, personally, can do to me, there’s obviously still others out there who could do something to us.

He storms around the room, becoming more enraged by the second. If he keeps going like this, he’s going to have a nervous breakdown before we even get to Franco.

“Alex,” I say softly.

“He’s not in Paris anymore.” He whips open his top drawer and starts shuffling around through miscellaneous items. After dumping almost everything onto the floor, he pulls out a black hardback notebook and places it down on his nightstand.

"What's that and what do you mean he’s not in Paris?" I ask, watching him clean up the mess he made on the ground.

"It's a notebook. And things sort of…ah…shifted in your head," he says.

I slap my hands down against my legs out of frustration. "You know I don’t understand what you mean by that!"

He spins around to face me and wrenches his hands around chunks of his hair. "I don’t know how else to explain. Just…please, trust me." He collapses against the wall and brings his knees up to his chest. His expression is disconnected, broken. It’s something I’ve felt many times, but I’ve rarely seen this look on his face.

“You keep asking me to trust you, Alex,” I say softly. “How can you keep asking me that when you’re hiding stuff from me?” Whatever it is he’s hiding from me, it's bad. I know it. I’ve known it.

I crouch down onto my hands and knees and crawl into his lap. He wraps his arms tightly around me and buries his face in my hair. He slides his hands up the sides of my cheeks and turns me to face him. He studies me from my eyes to my chin. When his eyes settle on my lips, he looks like he wants to cry. He presses his forehead against mine and presses his lips onto my nose, then my lips. His tongue dances around the inside of my mouth. My hands are around his neck and I can feel his throbbing pulse. I don’t understand how he can skip from a frantic motivation to find a notebook, to needing me.

He frees one hand from my face, reaches up to the bed, and pulls a pillow down. He throws it on the ground behind me and lays me down next to him before gliding over me.

I still don't say a word. I just study the unresolved look in his eyes. Each of his movements has purpose, meaning. Everything is slow and moves in perfect stride. His eyes are open and staring into mine. It's as if he's trying to explain something to me with actions rather than words, but I'm not sure I understand what he's trying to tell me.

I don't want to go see Franco.

I don't want any more birds flying into our windows.

I don't want to see any more flashlights or weird looking men who are apparently stalking me for The Necklace of Death.

I want our family to be normal, but we don't get normal. I was born into abnormal and I don’t know how to escape that. My life has been one big imprisonment of cruelty and broken things. My mother abused my father and me. She held me hostage for nineteen years and eventually had me admitted permanently to an institution.

I've brought nothing but a whole lot of heartache, stress, fear and anxiety into Alex's life and he's taken on more than one person should have to take on. My excess baggage is more like a truckload, and Alex is carrying it all on his shoulders.

I shouldn't be thinking about any of this while my husband’s hands are working their way around my body, but my mind can’t seem to avoid these thoughts. There's little room for happiness or joy—it seems like nothing will ever give.

Sammy deserves better. He deserves honesty and clarity. Maybe Kiera took better care of him than I am. Maybe someone else would be a better parent than I am. So many minutes of my life goes to solving a mystery I'm not so sure has a solution. My time should be spent playing checkers, make-believe, action heroes and baking cookies. I promised myself I wouldn't be this person, but what choice have I been given? I've not had a choice. Things seem pre-planned and no matter what I do, I can't change the outcome. I can’t change my mind.

Alex is breathing heavy, and I’m barely breathing. He knows my mind is not where it should be. I can see it on his face. I’m just a body with a lost mind. Or a mind without a soul. What kind of wife am I?

His hand sweeps across my face as he leans back down to kiss me. "Are you okay?" He sweeps a loose strand of hair off of my cheek. “You didn’t…ya know.” I was completely missing from the moment, much less even enjoying myself.

"What's happening?" I ask softly.

He kisses me again and rolls to my side. He reaches up to the nightstand and pulls down the notebook. "This is all you'll need," he says. He kisses my forehead and replaces the notebook on the nightstand. “Come on, let's pack a few things so we can leave early in the morning." He stands up, leaving me sprawled out on the floor, lifeless, mindless. Lost.

The notebook is all I'll need? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I want to see what's in it. I need to see what's in it. I pull myself off the ground and reach my hand out for the notebook, but Alex's hand is wrapped around my other arm, pulling me away. "Why?" I whip my head around to face him. "What is going on, Alex? You know something—something bad that's going to happen. Don't do this to me," I cry. I can’t help the tears that are burning my cheeks, and the sobs that are making it hard to breathe.

He wraps his arms around me tightly and sucks in a breath of air. "It will all be over soon. Everything will be okay."

I pull away from him, angered and bewildered. "You tell me that, but nothing ever seems like it’s okay or going to be okay. You know this, Alex."

"It's almost over, Chlo." His voice crackles as he says my name.

"What's almost over?" I take a step backward. "Us?"

He matches my step, cornering me against the wall. "You and I—we will never be over. Never," he says with a blazing stare. "You just need to trust that you know what you should know, and anything more will hurt you and us. I know I'm asking a lot, Chloe. But this is the way it has to be.”

“This isn’t fair. I’m sick of this,” I continue to cry.

“It's not fair to you, I know.” He combs his fingers through my hair, trying to soothe my pain and worry. Nothing could make that go away. “This situation is bigger than either of us. Sometimes, we have to take certain steps backward in order to take one forward. I'm just asking you, as my wife, my best friend, the girl who I knew I was going to be with forever at age seven, to trust me, one more time. That's all I'm asking. It will be the last time. Will you do this for me, again? Please?"

I shake my head to say no, but my mouth says, "Yes."

Why do I keep agreeing to be kept in the dark from things like this? Is it really what's best for me? "How long are we going to Massachusetts for?"

"Plan on just the one day," he says.

We both take our backpacks from the closet and throw a change of clothes in there. Alex takes all of the money out of his wallet and places it in the top drawer of our dresser, looking at me and making sure I see what he’s doing.

"Won't we need some of that to travel?" I ask.

"I have enough for tomorrow."

He takes a piece of paper out of his pocket, looks at me again and places it in the notebook. "Later," he says while closing the notebook.

***

I didn't sleep, not even for a second. My head has been spinning, thinking and planning the worst. Alex fell asleep a few times, but he tossed and turned more than he slept. He had some nightmares too. They startled him awake, sweating and delirious.

I didn't see him say good-bye to Sammy, but I heard him talking with him for a while this morning. I just couldn't hear what he was saying. When I said good-bye to Sammy, he hugged me tightly, smiled and said, "Don't worry, Mommy. I'll see you tonight."

Celia hasn't said more than a couple of words. I don't know what she knows at this point and what she doesn't. She said, "I'll see you later, guys," when we walked out of the apartment. Regardless of her flat tone, I felt better when she said guys—meaning both of us.

We're taking my car to the airport. We never take my car anywhere. Alex prefers to drive his Jeep. He sits down in the driver’s seat, positions his seat, lifts the steering wheel, adjusts the mirrors, looks at his reflection, and shakes his head with disappointment.

"What's the—"

"Don't ask me that," he says.

CHAPTER SEVEN:

FLYING TO FIND THE END

I DECIDED MAYBE it was best not to say anything right now. The entire thirty-minute trip to the airport was quieter than a night in a padded cell. When we arrived at the airport, he retrieved our two backpacks from the trunk and threw one over each shoulder. I took my purse and clutched it between my arms. I still hate flying, but I hate it even more knowing that I'm heading to Massachusetts and walking into some sort of lion's den. What if Alex is giving himself up to Franco again to keep us safe? Oh my—that's what this is all about. That's why he is acting like this is the end. That's why he's acting the way he's acting. But why would Celia tell us she'd see us later? That part doesn't make sense.

"Chloe?" Alex places his hand on my shoulder, startling me out of my dark thoughts.

"I'll do anything to keep us three safe, you know. You don't have to hide anything from me." I look him in his wide eyes. “Shouldn’t we wait until after Sammy’s birthday to do anything, though?” I ask.

"What are you talking about?" he asks.

"I’m sure this is about the locket and me giving it to him. And if that’s what this is, I’ll do it," I say, placing my hand over his shoulder. I force a smile so he knows I’m being genuine.

Alex rests both of his hands on my shoulders and narrows his eyes. "You think I would bring you to Franco so you could give him your locket? Are you crazy?"

I shrug against his heavy hands. "Isn't that why we're going?"

"No, Chloe." He looks pissed at me for having such a thought. But really, what other reason is there for going? I’m sure we’re not going there so we can tell him he’s scaring us and to leave us alone. The thought of that actually makes me want to laugh.

I pull myself out of his tightening grip. His hands are trembling and the veins on his forehead are protruding. "Then what is this? Just tell me already."

He wraps his hands back onto my shoulders, brings his face closer to mine and closes his eyes. "I can't. If I told you, it could put Sammy in danger."

I know he's lying and using Sammy as a decoy. He knows I won't fight him when it has to do with Sammy. “Let go of me.” He releases his hands immediately, realizing his fingers had been pressing too firmly. I swing my purse back over my shoulder. "Let's just go."

I follow Alex through the multiple terminals until we arrive at gate nineteen. They're already boarding the plane, so Alex pulls out our two tickets and walks up to the check-in counter. The flight attendant checks over our boarding passes and pops them into a scanner. As they shoot out of the other side, she pulls them out and rips them in half before handing one to each of us. I look at the ticket to see what seat I'm sitting in and walk through the narrow jetway.

As I walk down the skinny aisles, everyone seems to be staring at me, trying to figure out my every thought. Everyone knows my destiny in my own drift—everyone but me. I slide into the window seat in lucky row thirteen. I fasten my seatbelt and stare outside and up into the clear blue sky. There are only two clouds up there. One looks like a flame, and the other just looks like a blob. I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. Once I hear Alex's seatbelt fasten, he lifts my hand from my lap and places it on his. His hand is sweaty and warm. I peek out of my half opened eyes to see his expression, but he's flipping through pictures on his phone. He comes to a picture of Sammy on Halloween when he was dressed like Buzz Lightyear from Toy Story. He unknowingly squeezes my hand tighter as he traces the outline of Sammy's face with his thumb. He clenches his eyes shut and clicks the off button before placing his phone down on his lap. He takes a deep breath and looks over at me. "You nervous?"

"Yeah, which one of us is dying today?" I whisper softly.

He gives me a weird laugh and nods his head like I’m nuts. "I meant, are you nervous about the plane ride?"

"No," I respond.

He forces a smile and lifts my hand to his lips. "I love you, Chlo. Why don't you take a nap? It will make the plane ride go by faster," he says, nestling his head awkwardly into the headrest.

"Maybe I don't want the plane ride to go by quickly," I mumble.

"It’s all going to be fine, Chlo. You'll see."

I might actually believe him if he wasn't acting like the world was going to end at some point today.

***

Why do they tell you to prepare for landing? What am I supposed to do other than stare at the world beneath us and hope we don't crash into it? And why can't they make it a soft landing? I feel like we're going to drive right off the runway into the Boston Harbor. Maybe that would be a better way to die today.

The wheels make contact with the pavement and the screeching noise of the brakes cause all of the hair on my arm to stand at attention. My body shivers from the squeal and I take a deep breath, knowing that I survived the first leg of the trip.

The cabin lights flicker on and off and Alex flips the metal plate of his seatbelt off before popping open the overhead compartment. Our bags come tumbling out and he catches both of them before swiftly throwing them back over his shoulders. I'm standing up at my seat, trying to stretch my cramped limbs with my head cocked to the right since I can't fully stand up until I move out of the row. It takes them so long to disembark the plane. I wish we could just fling open the emergency door so that rubber slide thing would pop out and we could get off of this claustrophobic piece of crap.

After twenty minutes of waiting for the moving jetway to line up to the plane properly, we transfer into the airport. We didn't check any bags, so we arrive on the top deck of the parking garage quickly. I glance around at all of the black limos and sedans. They remind me of the stolen car Franco had when he took me down into the Catacombs where he was holding Alex hostage.

Off to the right is a short bald man with a huge black mustache, holding a small whiteboard with our last name scribbled on it.

"We have a car picking us up? A taxi would have been fine, you know."

"We don't want anyone to know where we're going," Alex whispers into my ear.

"This guy is going to know where we're going," I remind him.

"The police force hired him."

"The San Diego Police Force hired this driver in Boston?" I ask.

"He works for the Boston Police Department. Don't worry."

I roll my eyes and beat the driver to the door so I can open it myself. I slide in onto the polished leather seats and place my purse over my lap. The windows are tinted and there are two bottles of water and two bags of pretzels in the middle console. I'm hungry, but my nerves would force the food up if I ate anything right now.

Alex slides in and rips open his bag of pretzels. "I'm starving," he says, emptying the bag into his mouth.

"You can have mine too," I say.

"You should eat them. You're probably hungry?"

"It's fine. I'll wait until this is all over and then I'll eat."

He doesn't touch my bag of pretzels. He just stares out of the darkened window throughout the duration of our forty-five minute ride to Worcester.

The clock tower is in sight and grows larger as we continue up the steep hill toward the institution. The driver pulls around the back of the building next to the dumpster and loading docks. He jumps out of the car and opens my door first and then greets Alex at his side.

"Good luck, kids," the driver says, speaking his first words since we met up with him.

Alex takes my hand and pulls me under the loading dock into the basement door of the institution, the door I've come in and out of a few times now. But it’s been years since I’ve been here. As we enter the dark and musky hallway, we hear a clanging noise in the distance. I'm sure it's coming from his cell. But, what could he have that would be making a noise?

As we approach the cell, we see his hand outside of the small barred window, clinking a beer bottle against the metal bars. Where did he get the bottle?

"Right on time, I see," Franco snarls.

"You knew we were coming?" I ask.

"Franco knows everything, darling," Franco seethes through his teeth that he has shoved up against the rusty bars. "I take it you have finally brought me the locket?"

"You aren't getting that damn locket, Franco. Give it up. I came here to tell you that the police are onto you. They know who you’re working with, and they know you are the founder of Ocnarf. I'm here to give you a friendly warning. If you do not cease and desist immediately, I will give away your location. Am I clear?"

"What do you mean give away his location?" I ask Alex. "I'm the one who put him here, so he would be locked up and away from us."

"Chloe, baby. Do you really think Franco would still be locked up if he didn't want to be?" Alex says as he pushes Franco's face away from the bars.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"He's been hiding out down here. If the police find him, he's a dead man. Do you know how many warrants are out for his arrest?"

I'm speechless. I can't even muster up the words to respond.

"Well, it's a good thing the police won't find me in here, isn't it?" Franco grunts.

"You moron, Alex is the police," I say.

Silence creeps over us. There are no sounds other than the shallow breathing seeping through the bars of the cell, along with the loud swallowing noise Alex just made. I suddenly realize that I probably wasn't supposed to give away Alex's identity to the one person who shouldn't have known. I can see by the look on his face that I screwed up.

"Chloe, can I speak with you for a moment?" Alex asks, dragging me quickly down the hall toward the exit.

"I am so sorry, Alex. That was so dumb of me. I have no idea why I said that."

As I'm mumbling a string of apologies, I hear Franco muttering something, followed by a harrowing laugh.

Alex wraps his hands around both of my arms and pulls me in close. "Chloe, I need you to run. Now. Do you understand? Don't look back—just keep running. Go anywhere, but here."

"But—" My body begins to shake and my knees feel weak. My heart is skipping beats and then racing to catch up. Beads of sweat are forming on the back of my neck, and I feel icy cold pins and needles cover my face. Run? I don't even know how to move right now. I'm staring into his eyes, and they're wide and covered with darkening red veins. His hands are becoming hot against my skin, but my skin feels freezing cold beneath his grip.

He pulls me in hard against him and presses his lips firmly against mine. He's breathing hard and his shirt is becoming damp from the amount of sweat pouring off of him.

Tears are pouring from my eyes and he backs away slightly, still staring at me. "I love you, baby. Never forget that," his voice sputters.

What’s happening? I’m scared. I’m terrified.

My body is numb. This is my mind. This is my mind. This is just in my goddamn mind. If it gets too bad, I can wake up. I’ll just wake up. Wake up, Chloe! I want to wake up now.

We hear a door open from the opposite end of the hall and both look down toward the noise. I hear a raucous shriek. What the hell is that?

I know what it is. Why am I questioning it? I should be running. Alex told me to run, so why am I standing here frozen in place?

Alex’s lips are screaming the words run, but I don’t hear any noise. I can’t hear anything but the shrieking. I clutch my hands around my ears and scream as loud as I can, but I can’t even hear my own screams. Just shrieking. I cry. I cry harder. Why can’t I hear my own cries? I’m crying for help, but I don’t hear my own cries for help.

What the hell is wrong with me?

My nose is burning.

My eyes are burning.

My throat is closing.

"Alex, come with me. Just come with me, please," I yell. I think.

Alex looks down the hall again, and I can see the instant his mind switches directions. He coughs, almost chokes. The smell in the air is sweet, but foul. There’s a fog creeping up on us as he grips my hand tightly within his and yanks me down the opposite end of the hallway. As we're running forward, I look behind us to see a swarm of black birds flying through the fog. As I watch them screaming toward us, I feel a cool gust of air hit the back of my neck, and I whip my head around as the metal door slams behind me. We continue running down the street, through a couple of parking lots and then onto a main street. We walk down a busy road, full of construction and traffic. The farther away we get, the better I feel, but I'm not stupid enough to think this is really the end. We're just taking a brief time out.

My heart is beating too fast. My body might collapse. Lights are flickering, but we’re outside, and it’s daytime.

The McDonalds across the street is turning into a spiraling vortex. My head is swaying around in circles. My head has become a lead weight. I feel zaps across my chest, and a white light blinds my eyes.

A pillow conforms to my head. Sheets cover my body. The scent of ammonia fills my nose and stings my throat. My shoulders sway from side to side. Fast. Then slow.

Fast again.

I’m shaking.

I’m on my feet again.

No pillow.

No sheets.

Rotten grease wafts through the air.

Alex.

“Chloe? Snap out of it. Stay with me.” Alex’s voice is shrill, panicked. I can hear him now. “Breathe, Chlo. In and out. In and out.” His words are broken apart. He’s having trouble breathing too. Why can’t we breathe? I study his eyes for an answer, but my head is too heavy. It falls forward, and I’m staring at the pavement. My eyes close again. But they burn like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing against each other. My mouth fills with saliva. It’s dripping from my lips.

“What happened?”

“Fumes,” he says in between coughing spasms.

CHAPTER EIGHT:

HOME IS NOT WHERE THE HEART IS

WE WALK INTO the McDonalds and Alex pulls me to the back of the restaurant and helps me into a booth. He pulls the hood of my sweatshirt over my head and tilts his baseball cap down over his eyes.

With both of our heads bowed toward the crumb-covered table, Alex breaks the silence. "Chloe, I saw something." Yeah. I saw something too.

Death.

Birds.

Hell.

What could he have seen that I didn’t?

My eyes peek out from under the fabric of my hood. Families surround us. Kids excited to see what’s in their happy meal. Moms and dads smile at their children’s innocent enjoyment. I was dealt the shittiest of shitty cards. So was Alex, and now Sammy too. What the hell did I do to deserve this much crap in one life? My head is so screwed up. I used to have an escape. It was harmless then. Now it’s becoming the demise of my life. I could kiss Alex good-bye and go back to one life, but that life is alone in a world that still consists of Franco. I think.

"I saw the birds too," I say.

He lifts his head enough so I can see his eyes beneath the rim of his cap. He’s silent for a minute. A long minute. The look in his eyes is unresolved, unsure. In the silence before his words, I fall in love with his eyes again—the ocean blue dimes that sparkle with the reflection of my own face.

How did we get here?

His perfect lips part as he pulls in a hesitant breath. "I saw something in our future a few years ago and I wasn't sure when it was going to happen, how, or why." He readjusts his hat before continuing. "Sammy was the age he is now and I remember Celia having two black eyes and a broken wrist.” This is it. I swallow hard. The secret he’s been hiding. The— “It was the end." End. He looks down at his shaky twiddling thumbs. I focus on his hands, the freckles on his knuckles, and the wedding band on his finger. His hands have always been so strong, but now they are weak.

All I can do is nod my head, repeating what he said in my head. He isn’t going anywhere. He can't. It's not his time, or my time. We have a family to take care of. We were supposed to have a happy ending, and this isn't it. We will have a happy ending. He promised me this so many times in the past few years. If he saw the end years ago, and he’s promised me a happy ending since then, what he’s saying doesn’t make sense.

“This is not the end,” I say, trying to convince myself. "What if we give him the locket?" If that’s what Franco wants, he can have it. Neither of our lives are worth that thing, no matter how important it is—a necklace that supposedly represents death. I don’t want it anyway. Maybe if we give it to Franco, the end that Alex thinks is coming won’t happen. Could it be so simple?

"I will die first," he says without thinking. He isn’t thinking. Obviously.

"Don't be absurd, Alex. No piece of jewelry is worth dying for." Then I remember. The necklace isn’t jewelry. It’s a representation of a piece of my mind. Alex will die before I surrender a part of my mind to Franco. He would die to protect me. That isn’t absurd. I would do the same for him.

"Chloe, it's not the jewelry part that is important here. It's what is in the locket that matters." I know that now. “There is something in the locket that will help you recall your lost memories. When you can recall that period of time, it will save you. It will return you.” Return me?

"I’ve already seen the picture inside, Alex. Nothing came back to me. It was a picture of an old couple in front of a rock. How would that trigger my memory?"

"There's something else besides the picture in the locket."

"Well, what is—" I stop talking when I see ten men, who all look similar in disposition, walk in. They're all in gray suits with weird matching copper wristbands. They spread out around the restaurant. Two of them are covering the exits, one is by the bathroom, three are in the ordering line, and two others sit at a booth near us. They're scoping out the surroundings, but they aren't looking at us. It's clear that we need to get by them without being recognized. I look up at Alex just enough to see the look on his face. His eyes widen and he mouths, "Go. Now."

I grab his hand so he knows I’m not leaving without him. "Honey, I don't want McDonalds. I'm not eating anything here. How many times do I have to tell you that?" I shout, causing a dramatic scene.

"Ah—but—Oh, I'm sorry. How could I be so stupid? I forgot you’re allergic to hamburgers," Alex plays along.

"You didn't forget. You're just so damn selfish all the time. You knew I wouldn't eat anything here, and yet you still dragged me into this dump." I stand up, continuing my act. "I'll be waiting in the car for you. Go order your damn Big Mac and meet me outside," I say, walking toward the door with my head down.

Alex stands up from the table and yells, "Baby, wait. I won't eat here if you don't want me to. We'll just go to Taco Bell. I'm sorry," he continues yelling, while racing after me.

As I approach the door, one of the men in a gray suit moves to the side and lifts his hands in defense against the brutal five-foot-tall girl bombing through McDonalds with rage. I bust through the door, and I hear one of the men say, "Good luck, man," to Alex. Alex continues after me, yelling, "Baby wait, I'm sorry."

We both make it outside and I hail a cab on the corner of the main street. After a minute or so of waiting for someone to pull over, a car pulls up and we both jump in. I see the men in gray suits exit McDonalds, noticing our departure in the cab, rather than the car I said I'd be waiting in.

Alex tells the cab to step on it and go to Southborough through all of the back roads. The cab driver pulls a sharp U-turn and slides us around the backseat. We're heading down the main street in the opposite direction, weaving in and out of traffic, and driving through red lights as we finally pull off on a narrow side street.

"No one's ever told me to step on it. That was fun," the cab driver says in an unidentifiable thick accent.

We ignore the cab driver’s ignorance and look at each other. "Burger King?" I laugh.

"I couldn't think of anything else on the spot." He laughs in return. "I can't believe you just pulled that off. I've underestimated your skills, Chloe." He puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me into him.

I know I can't ask what's in the locket while we're in the cab. Who knows what the driver will do, say, or think? We have no clue who's affiliated with Franco and who's not anymore. It's safer to assume everyone is.

"We can do this. Get away," I whisper.

Alex shakes his head with disagreement. “We can't change a future we've already seen. It's going to happen, Chloe. We just don't know when.” He lifts my hand from my lap and squeezes it in between his.

"I don't believe it. We can change it." I sigh. Who makes these rules anyway? "Maybe you were just saying good-bye to Sammy and Celia because you had to go on some kind of police mission for a few days? They do that don't they, the police I mean?" He could be wrong. Maybe that’s what this is—a mistake. Confusion maybe.

"That's not the case. I'm sorry, Chlo." He drops my hand and takes his hat off of his messy blonde curls. He leans his head back against the seat and closes his eyes.

What could he have seen that showed him the end? Why has he been able to go all of these years without telling me? I would have told him. I think.

"Where in Southborough do you need to go, sir?" The driver asks.

"Chloe, what's your parents’ address?"

"No. No way—absolutely not. Are you insane?" Besides, would that even be the same here? I suppose since she’s always popping up in my drift, it could be the same. That hellhole will never be welcome on any other street. That’s for sure.

"Yes, now tell him the address, please," he says, maintaining his calm demeanor.

I don't want to see my parents, plus, the last time I attempted to introduce Alex to my mom, she couldn’t see him, which means I will just be alone with them. I’d rather rot in hell. I’d rather go share a cell with Franco.

I rake my fingers through my hair, frustrated and trying to think of an alternate solution. Nothing is coming to me, though.

"Alex, please—"

"Chloe, tell him. He's waiting," he says, becoming aggravated. I don’t see the need to involve my parents in this. I’m just giving that woman what she wants by running back to her. I feel defeated.

"My address is 2452 Pine Street. It's off of Main Street," I say.

"You two running from the cops or something?" The cab driver chuckles to himself.

"I am a cop," Alex says with an intimidating attitude.

I can see the driver's eyes widen into circular shapes, showing more of the white than his brown irises. I watch his Adam’s apple move up and down on his throat as he swallows hard. His left hand fidgets around on the console, covering something up as he clears his throat. He thinks we care right now, but he is the least of our problems. He could be chugging a bottle of booze right now and Alex wouldn’t care.

We pull down the familiar streets in my neighborhood, filled with large colonials that belong to millionaires, mixed in with some old farmhouses. We take a left onto my street and drive by the neighboring houses. Everyone still has their Christmas lights up. In reality and in my drift, these damn lights always stay up until Easter.

The driver pulls into my ripped up driveway and up to my white colonial house. I wish my parents would do something to fix this place up so it would match the other houses on the street.

I fling myself out of the cab and instinctively look both ways to make sure no one has followed us. After Alex throws some money at the driver, he steps out with our two backpacks and meets me around the other side of the car. "I remember this place now," he says.

“You remember my house?”

“Yeah, we used to play here. Sometimes we went to my house, sometimes Celia’s, and sometimes here.” He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. But it is a big deal to me. I didn’t know he knew where I lived. I guess it doesn’t change anything. But gaining insight on more times I can’t remember, still infuriates me.

I wonder if I found it embarrassing to live in an unkempt house then, too. I guess children don’t really have a sense of what’s nice and what isn’t—a temporary innocence that clouds their minds against such embarrassment. "I have the oldest, most run-down house on a street in the midst of all these mansions. It’s humiliating." I sneer at the peeling paint.

"I think it looks cozy and homey," he smiles.

Right. Exactly.

Snow covers the driveway. It’s compacted down from tire marks. My dad gave up on shoveling years ago. When he lost his motivation to be happy, he stopped caring about everything. I remember that when the winters got hectic here, we’d get up to a couple of feet of snow on our driveway. Eventually, it got to the point where the mailman started leaving our mail in a plastic bag at the end of the driveway. I can’t say I blamed him. No one should have to wear knee high snow boots to walk up a driveway.

“Sorry about the snow.” Neither of us is wearing boots. Alex has on his Converse Chucks, and I’m wearing ballet flats. I didn’t prepare well for this trip. I forgot how cold and miserable it is here. I look down at the pale exposed skin on the top of my feet, wondering how bad the cold will hurt when I step into the snow.

Alex follows my gaze and laughs a little. He scoops me up in his arms and carries me to the front door. For a minute, I’m caught up in the feeling of his embracing arms, remembering the first home we bought in South Carolina.

We found this perfect little house right on the water. It was two floors, three bedrooms, and two bathrooms—a perfect starter house for a young family. I fell in love with the house as soon as we pulled into the driveway. Alex jumped out and pulled Sammy from the carseat.

I stepped out of the car as Alex was running back toward me. He was so happy—a smile from ear to ear. He scooped me up and ran with me to the front door. He had to carry me over the threshold. We had lived in so many different places already, and this was going to be our first permanent residence. It was comforting to know we could call a place home. I would do anything to feel like that again. We only got to live there for a year until we moved back to San Diego because of the followers. But it was a great year.

"Why are we here, Alex?" I ask, as he places me down on my feet in front of my parents’ front door.

"I don’t think they’ll come here,” he says with an unsure look on his face.

"This is the only place in the whole world that I’m safe? Are you joking?" Why wouldn’t they come here? This is a great place to come. Take my mother, do something with her.

"Chloe, it's just until I can come up with a plan to keep us all safe, okay?" He grabs my hand to turn me around. "I want to believe that what I saw isn’t our fate, and I want to believe that there's still a way to change what I saw.” He rings the doorbell. “I just need to clear my mind." I just want to tell him how unsafe my mother really is. She’s a nutcase, psycho. Last time I saw her, she couldn’t even see Alex. So, this should play out well. This woman should not exist in my mind. I wish I could make her disappear here, at least. But everyone’s hopes, wishes, fears, and deaths live within the confines of their own heads. She’ll never disappear, not from my real life, not from my nightmares.

"You know my mom can't see you, right? Remember when she found me in Paris and didn't know you were there?"

"Hmm—" He takes in a slow breath. "It's okay. You can just pretend you're alone.” Well, that should be easy. That’s exactly how I feel right now. No one hates this woman as much as I do. Alex won’t have to deal with her, only I will. My stomach is churning at the thought of seeing the grimace on her face when she recognizes me. The hate in her eyes, the scowl on her lips. The disdain she holds for me, blaming me for her horrible life.

I grunt as I reach for the doorknob. The door flings open and my mother is standing there with her arms out, crying. Her auburn hair is perfectly curled, her mint green eyes look rested with less wrinkles than I remember. She’s wearing perfectly fitted jeans and a white button down blouse. She looks good, but I won’t tell her that.

She pulls me into the house and wraps her boney arms around my back. Has she lost weight? She looks like she must have lost twenty pounds or so. I wiggle out of her arms and take a couple of steps back. Alex makes his way up to where I'm standing, taking slow hesitant steps. But he could be doing jumping jacks and cartwheels right now and my mother wouldn't notice anything.

"Alex," my mother says, pointedly.

"Hello, Mrs. Valcourt. It's been a while."

My mother opens her arms and walks toward Alex. He doesn't move, but she still wraps her arms around him tightly while he stands stiff as a board.

"Mother? You can see Alex? But—I thought—I thought you couldn't see him. I thought you said he was just my imaginary friend? Now you can see him?" I ask, while wrapping my arms around Alex's arm.

"I've always been able to see him," she says, inhaling sharply and pushing her bangs away from her right eye. "I figured if I showed you that he didn't exist, then he wouldn't. You shouldn’t exist here, Chloe. You need to come home. And Alex is keeping you in this world. I want my daughter back." Her eyes fill up with tears, and I can’t figure out the meaning of anything she is saying. I am home right now, and Alex isn’t keeping me anywhere.

"You have real nerve putting me into an institution, pretending I’m crazy, that something is wrong with me. You’re just as screwed up as I am," I spew to her. I pull Alex toward the front door, forgetting why we're here. All of the reasons I never wanted to see her again are slapping me in the face.

"Can I get you two some hot cocoa?" my mother asks in a kind voice I'm unfamiliar with. She completely ignored what I just said and seems unfazed by anything.

"Hot cocoa? Do you even have such an artificial beverage in this house?" I ask snidely. I turn to open the door, but Alex wraps his hand around my wrist, pulling me toward him. I sigh heavily, knowing we aren’t leaving.

I pull my coat off and drape it over the side of the couch. “Come on, Mother. Let’s hear more of your bullshit.”

"Chloe, how many times can I apologize and tell you I want to change?" she says, reaching for my hand.

I yank my hand out of her reach. "People don't change," I sneer at her. "Where is Dad?”

“Your father does not exist in your drift,” she says with a look as if I just asked the most ridiculous question. “Chloe, do you still not understand how this works?”

“How what works?” I whip my head to the side. “My own mind?” I think I know how that works. Bitch.

“Those who appear in your drifts can also drift. Besides, no one wants him around anyway. We are no longer together. Our marriage has failed because of you, Chloe.”

Because of me? This is so ridiculous I almost want to laugh. Trying to comprehend this, I have to assume that every person in this so-called imaginary world is real, but not in the form in which I see them? My own questions are being pieced together. I feel more knowledgeable and somewhat enlightened by this.

“I know,” I lie.

Her eyes narrow at me, seeing through my deception. ““Did you also know that your uncle has the ability to manipulate souls of the dead?” she says softly.

Like, ghosts? Why is she whispering? Is she hoping Alex doesn’t hear? I’m pretty sure he has a right to know that we’re being chased around town by ghosts right now. They are also figments of my mind. Good to know. “Ghosts, huh?” I laugh a little.

Her face drains of color, and her eyes go wide. “Things are different here, Chloe. The real life you chose to abandon does not have these entities of fear. Ghosts don’t exist in the real world, but they do in your mind. And you shouldn’t be foolish enough to think they can’t hurt you here. In your mind. Fears can always hurt you.“

“Yup, sure, Mother,” I try to cover my growing anxiety with sarcasm.

She glances over her shoulder into the living room and shrugs in that direction. "Okay, well I have company right now. So if I can't get you anything, will you excuse me for a moment while I tend to this kind gentleman in the other room?" She swallows hard and nudges her head toward the door. "He said he would only need a few minutes of my time. Once I can get him out of here, we'll have all the time in the world to catch up." She smiles and turns toward the living room.

Alex follows her to the edge of the wall and peeks around the corner before flinging his body back against the wall. "Gray suit," he whispers.

CHAPTER NINE:

GRAY SUIT

NO FAST FOOD restaurant, taxicab, or childhood home is going to protect us now. We're trapped, and I'm even willing to bet that more gray suits surround the house. It’s as if I’m being chased out of this world—this drift.

As my mother walked back into the living room, I followed. I watched as it took the man less than a minute to have her hands roped. He threw her to the couch and stood in front of her with his arms crossed over his chest.

"What do you want?" I ask the man.

He looks down at his copper bracelet and huffs a breath of air onto it. "Look, hon, I was never really into killing people, but Franco has convinced me otherwise. I'm sure you can understand. This can really be quite simple. You give me the locket, and we all leave you alone to rest-in-peace." He laughs, while polishing the foggy copper with the inside of his gray suit.

"I need a moment to speak with my husband?" I say.

"No. I don’t think so." He takes a step closer to me. "I'm trying to be nice right now. But you see, here in this world you created, Franco captures the souls of those he has killed and turns them into people like me. I’m angry that my life was taken from me. And to be quite honest, I couldn’t care less about sparing yours. I don’t have the ability to feel sympathy. You’re pleas will be in vain.” He isn’t real. Franco is just trying to get in my head. “So you see, in about ten seconds," he pauses and looks down at his watch, "I'm going to get a little less friendly." He looks at his watch again. "Do you get where I'm going with this?" His voice elevates into a high-pitched whiny voice.

He isn’t real.

He can’t hurt us.

I look over at Alex with question. I’m not sure what to do. Part of me is frozen with fear. The other part really wants to believe that this person is in fact just a figment of my imagination.

A nightmare.

"I'll take you to the locket," Alex says through his gritted teeth.

I look at him and shake my head, confused and wondering what he's doing. He's made it clear he won't give the location of the locket away.

The gray suit readjusts his coat and cracks his neck to each side. He turns around and lifts the mug of coffee from the coffee table and takes a sip. "Mrs. Valcourt, thank you for your kind hospitality. I guess we'll all be going now," he says with a conniving smile.

"Uh, I don't think so, sir. Why don't you have a seat here and we'll talk this through. I'm sure there's something we can do to work this out, other than the kids leading you to this superficial artifact." She slides her foot up the man’s leg, slowly and seductively. I want to throw up.

He jerks his leg away from her and moves a few feet away with a disgusted look on his face. "I've said all I'm going to say, Mrs. Valcourt. It would be in your best interest to have a seat and leave us to our business."

"You are absolutely not taking my daughter. Take him if you must." She nods her head in Alex's direction.

Of course she would surrender Alex to him. She would feed him to a bunch of hungry wolves if she had the opportunity. That way she'd have me trapped again, and all to herself—maybe then she could lock me back up again.

"Very well," the man agrees.

"That's probably a good idea," Alex says. "I'll take care of this, Chlo. Stay here with your mom."

The heat in my face is burning through all of my pores. My ears feel like there are flames shooting out of them, and I can feel the veins in my head pulsating against my tightened skin. "No,” I shriek. “I'm coming."

The gray suit laughs and wraps his strong fingers around the lower part of my arm and whips me around. "Good.” He laughs. “Let's go, princess." He opens the front door and shoves me outside onto the front step. I feel Alex on the heels of my feet, leaving no space between us.

My mother yells something from inside, but her voice is cut short as the man slams the door in her face. A car awaits us in front of the house, another shiny black sedan. He opens the door and Alex nudges me to get inside and then follows me in.

There's no water or pretzels in this car.

The gray suit jumps into the backseat with us and tells Alex to push in, squishing me into the left side of the car. "Well then, kids. Where are we heading?"

I look at Alex. He's looking straight ahead out of the front windshield and remains silent.

"You aren't going to tell me, are you?" the suit asks.

Alex doesn't even blink in response to his question. "Floor it, Eddie," the suit directs the driver.

Alex's hand slides down between our two laps and grabs my hand tightly. "Purgatory Chasm," Alex says.

Alex remains still and unfazed by the new direction we seem to be heading in. I've heard of Purgatory Chasm before. There's a bunch of rocks, water, and woods. I'm not sure why Alex would tell him to go there. We’re racing down the highway, and I watch the trees blur around us. The air in the car is becoming scant, and my throat feels as if it's closing in. The muscles in my chest are aching all the way to my back. I’m panicking.

It’s a figment. Why is it so hard to believe that?

I see the road signs displaying the mileage left until we reach Purgatory Chasm. I wish I could read Alex's mind. Now would be a really good time to be able to do that. I wonder if he wants to run when we get out. Where would we run? He smoothes his thumb over my knuckles, and I know he's trying to tell me it's going to be okay. I don't understand how, though. I'm sure this man has a weapon on him, and I'm sure we aren't going too far without giving him an answer.

Alex takes his hand off of mine and glides his fingers over his side cargo pocket. I move my hand slightly to feel against the pocket, as well. I feel something. I'm just not sure what. It has to be something that's going to protect us. He wouldn't have come here with nothing, knowing who we're dealing with.

The car pulls up in front of a wooded area with picnic benches. I look out of the left window and see a cluster of large mountainous rocks. If running is the plan of action, then that's where we should head. The gray suit opens his door and slides out. Alex follows him, but before I can even slide out toward the one open door, I see the gray suit fall to the ground. Alex is hovered over him with blood dripping from his fist. The guy is still conscious but seems out of it enough to give us a head start on escaping.

"You’re next if you don't get the hell out of here now," Alex yells to the driver. The driver doesn't even blink before he takes off for the street. "Chloe, go over there quick," Alex shouts, nodding his head toward the rocks. "I'll be right there."

I hop out of the car, leap over the messy gray suit lying flat on the ground and run toward the rocks. I run, looking behind me—not taking my eyes off of Alex. When I’m halfway over to the rocks, Alex begins sprinting toward me. He catches up quickly and takes me by the arm, pulling me at a much faster speed than I was running. He stops at the rocks and lowers me down into a cave-like formation just as I see the gray suit push himself up and pull out his phone.

Alex takes a moment to catch his breath and removes his cap to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. We're both crouched down, sitting with our knees folded up to our chests.

"What now?" I ask, smudging the dirt off the top of his hand.

"We stay here until nightfall—until we can get away without being seen," he says.

“He’s a figment though, right?” I ask.

He doesn’t respond. He drops his chin against his heaving chest.

It's only two in the afternoon. We have to wait at least four more hours until the sun will set. Being hungry and needing to use a restroom shouldn’t matter right now, but the more I sit here and think about it, the more it's torturing me. Alex hasn't been talking. He's had his head buried in his knees for the past hour. I have so much I want to ask him, but I can't find the words. I feel cornered, constricted.

***

Over the past couple of hours, we've exchanged a few words of comfort, or he has, mostly. But comfort is all they are worth. The truth still exists, and I can't for a second believe we're going to escape Franco's gray-suited army. I guess that's what I should call them now.

"I wonder if all of those people in Paris, who were angry at me for taking the locket, were a part of Franco's army?" I look up at Alex for a response. "But I guess if they were, Franco and the gray suits would already know where the locket is. Right?" I further my questioning.

"Not exactly," he says.

“Well then what, Alex? Tell me something. Give me some kind of hope, will you?” I can’t help my anger. I need answers. I know he knows more than I do, but he won’t tell me anything.

“You can have hope. You will come out on the other side. I promise you that.”

“So, is this even real?” I ask again. He always tells me, ‘we are real,’ but I can never figure out if everything else is real.

“Are your dreams real?” he asks. “Are anyone’s dreams real?”

“I don’t know anymore,” I say. “Do you know?”

He shrugs.

The sun is beginning to set and my legs are cramped, my bladder is about to explode and my stomach has been screaming at me for hours. Alex must be feeling the same way as me. He's pulling himself up to a crouching stance and peeking his head out from under the cave of rocks.

"Come here. Follow me," he says.

I gladly stand up halfway and climb out of the hole we’ve been sitting in. He takes my hand and hops over a few boulders and then lowers me down another level. Once he jumps down, he takes my hand again and leads me over to a large boulder that's three times the size of all the others. It's split down the middle with a sign above that says, ‘Lemon Squeeze.’ He pulls me inside—we barely fit sideways. We're face to face, and he slides his hands onto my cheeks and over my ears. He pulls my face into his and presses his lips softly against mine. Kissing me with everything in his heart, I feel his body tremble against mine. He pulls away and his eyes are glued to mine. I can't help but to study each speckle in his blue irises glowing beneath the rising moon. The freckles on his face, the pinkness in his cheeks, the warmth of his hands around my face and the comfort of his body against mine is something I'll always love.

"We're in a chasm." He smiles. "It's our crazy schasm place, remember?"

I can't help the tears that are trickling down my cheeks. My body is quivering from emotional pain. I can't take the thought of losing him. I can't get myself to believe it. It can't happen. After everything we've fought for, why would that happen to us? It can't. Right?

"Chloe, listen to me.” His voice is low and smoky. It’s comforting. “Things are going to get real bad here for a while. But I promise you will have every answer you need soon.”

“I will?” I ask. “But are you going to make it out of this?”

“Yes. I will make it through this. And so will you. However things end up, there will be a way to make things right again. You just need to believe in it."

“You mean, you aren’t going to…you know…die?” I pray that his answer has changed from a day earlier. But why would it? Nothing has changed. If anything, things have gotten worse. A lot worse.

“Chlo, it is what it is. Just have some faith, okay?” He presses his lips onto my forehead.

"How will anything be okay if you aren't with me? I couldn't live without you, Alex. Don't you know that?" I cry.

"You will find a way to be with me," he says with confidence.

“Please elaborate.” The irritation in my voice can’t be concealed. “I want to know what we’re doing before we go anywhere. No more secrets, Alex. I’ve seriously had it. Do you not understand this?”

He presses his finger against my lips. “You’re so beautiful when you get mad.” He smirks.

“Don’t play me, Alex.”

“Okay. Fine. Ask me what you want,” he says.

“Really?” This may take a while.

“Yes, we have a few more minutes before the sun is gone. Ask away.”

“That disturbance in Paris:—were those people part of Franco’s army?”

“Franco’s army?” He laughs a little.

“Yes, that’s what I’m calling them.” I cross my arms and lean back against the wall of the lemon squeeze.

“Yes, they all were a part of Franco’s army,” he says, with air quotes around the word “army.” What else would I call it? They’re trying to attack us.

“Is the locket still in the Catacombs?” I ask. If it was still there, Franco’s army would know its whereabouts since they were so protective of it when I had originally taken it.

Alex looks up to the setting sun through the crack of the rocks we’re between. “No, it’s not there.” He exhales a long breath. “It never was.”

“What?” My voice cracks. Where the hell is it? Why hasn’t he told me? “What was the locket I put back there, then?”

“A replica. It’s always been a replica. But Franco knows it’s not real now. Chlo, you would have been in more danger if you knew the truth.” He places his hand on my shoulder.

“Let me guess, Alex…it was for my own good?” I say with a snippy attitude.

He laughs again. I’m glad he finds my anger so humorous. “Exactly,” he says, winking at me.

“Whatever, Alex.” I turn my head to face the other side of the crack.

“Any more questions?” he asks.

I turn back to look at him. “Yes, obviously,” I say with more than a hint of hostility. “Where is the freaking thing? In my pocket?” I reach my hand in to clarify my own sanity, that I haven’t been carrying the thing around with me all day.

He laughs at my behavior. He can laugh all he wants. I’ve been in the dark for so long, and I have a right to be angry. “Your mother has it.”

“Oh! Perfect.” I groan. “Well that should be nice and easy to retrieve.”

“You’ll find a way,” he says simply.

“I’m doing it alone, I take it.”

“Yes,” he says.

“I have one more question.”

“That’s it? I figured you’d have an hour-long list.” He smiles and nudges his shoulder into mine.

“Are you really going to die?”

“Define die?” he says.

“Really?” My heart sinks a little. Is there more than one definition to being dead? “Dead usually means you’re gone for good, Alex. I’m not dumb.”

“Maybe I can prove you wrong.” He leans over and kisses my cheek. “It’s time to go now.” He starts shimmying out toward the exit of the crack, but I grab his arm.

“Wait!”

He stops. “You said you didn’t have any more questions.”

“You didn’t answer me fairly,” I say.

“I did, though. Everything will be okay, Chloe.” He grabs my hand and pulls me out of the clenched rocks. He’s just trying to lessen the emotional turmoil I’ll have to go through if, and when, he actually dies.

We climb up the boulders that lead to the dark parking lot. There are no families here, no hikers or picnickers. There are no gray suits. It’s just us.

Alex pulls his phone from his pocket and types in a message. “Who are you texting?”

“The limo driver.”

“I have another question,” I say, wrapping my arms around my body. The temperature has dropped significantly since the sun went down. It was cold with the sun, but now it’s freezing. I grab a sweatshirt out of backpack and pull it over my head. I still hate this place.

“You said no more questions,” he says, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

“Why can’t the police take Franco down?”

“You’ll need him,” he says.

“Um, what?” I laugh. “I highly doubt that.”

A set of headlights blinds us from around the corner. My heart jumps into my throat briefly until Alex starts walking toward it. The car stops in front of us and Alex opens the back door. “Go ahead.” I slide in and settle into the seat.

Water and pretzels again.

“Hey man,” Alex addresses the driver. “Back to Logan Airport.”

“We’re going home?”

“No,” he says, looking out of his window.

CHAPTER TEN:

PARIS IN A DAY

“ALL PASSENGERS traveling on Flight 363 to Paris, France, please report to gate 11,” the loudspeaker blares.

Alex grabs my hand and starts jogging toward the gate. We just made it through security. “Paris?” I yell over the crowd of people around us.

“Yes. We have to hurry.”

***

You’d think they’d make the seats on international flights a little more comfortable. The man sitting next to me smells like a pine air freshener. He’s breathing heavily and he’s been crunching on peanuts since we sat down. As if my anxiety isn’t already at it’s maximum capacity, I have to sit in between Mr. Peanut and Alex who’s avoiding me like the plague.

He mumbled some kind of plan to me while we were walking down the aisle to our seats, but I'm still not sure it makes any sense. He wants to derail Franco. Send him to Paris looking for the locket again. I don’t see how it will work.

Once we land, we walk around the city, and I begin to feel my heart pounding in my throat. Realization is setting in quickly as we try to blend in with the crowds in order to remain hidden from anyone who might be looking for us, particularly Franco’s army.

***

“What are we doing? Here of all places?” I ask, breathing in the sickly sent of the Catacombs. I will never get used to this stench.”

“We have to return this to the rock you found it on.” He pulls his hand out of his pocket, revealing a locket.

“How do you have that?” I ask, bewildered to think he’s had it on him all this time.

He pulls out his map, unaffected by my distress. "We have to make it look like we’re replacing the locket. That’s all we have to do. Then we can go home.”

“Again? Is that another fake one? Because if it is, I doubt they are going to fall for it a second time,” I say, dubious of his idea.

“They’ll have to check it out at least. It’s buying us time right now,” he says.

“Time? Until what, Alex?”

He pushes me gently up against one of the walls that isn’t covered with skulls. He pins my shoulders back and his eyes pierce into mine. “You think I have all of the answers. I don’t. I don’t know much more than what’s going to happen at this moment. I haven’t seen this far ahead. Everything after Celia got attacked by a gray suit has been black. I’ve been putting pieces together as we go along. I’m as lost as you are right now. I’m doing my best to keep you safe. We can’t change my ending.”

“How do you know?” I want to press my shoulders into his hands to pull him into me, but I can’t move. I feel weak under his grip. We’re both lost together now. He doesn’t know what’s coming.

He slides his hands from my shoulders up and around my cheeks. He leans forward, placing his face only inches from mine. "I’m sure we only have a few minutes before Franco’s men find us down here.”

“Are we surrendering to them?” I ask.

He laughs. “No. I told you, we’re throwing them off track to buy you some time.” Buy me some time alone. I can’t handle this. I can’t leave here without him. Is that what this is? He’s leaving me in the place that contains all of our beginnings, our vows? He’s closing our book where it opened. Hot tears build up behind my eyes and I want to cry hard until the pain in my chest stops aching, but I want him to talk. I want to hear his voice. I want to hear him, see him and smell him until I can’t anymore.

“Don’t leave me.” My words are mixed with sobs and are barely comprehendible.

“Chlo.” He places his finger under my eye to catch a falling tear. “I love you. And I need you to understand a couple of things.” He’s saying good-bye. I knew it. I need to sit. I can’t just stand here and listen to his reason for leaving me here in this world alone. I slide down against the rough wall until my butt hits the dust-covered ground. He squats down in front of me and places his hands over my knees. “I've been trying to give you a normal life while I could. I kept you on a need to know basis, because it would make your life less stressful and you happier. All I've ever wanted is to wake up to your beautiful smile every morning. And you've given that to me for the past five years. It's as much as I ever could have asked for.”

I can’t swallow his words. He’s trying to say good-bye. I need to keep him here in this spot. More questions. That will keep him here. "Why does the locket belong to me?" I ask.

He places two fingers on my temple. "Everyone has one. It’s the part of your brain that allows you to release a state of unconsciousness. Do you understand that?” I suddenly do. Whatever is in the locket, or in my mind that has been closed and locked, is the key to waking up from all of this? But will I wake up back in the institution again? Is that what I’m fighting for? A confined life without Alex? I’d rather die with him. “For as long as Franco can keep you from the locket, or you accessing that part of your brain, he will have control over you. When you lose the will to be here in this life—in this realm in which we treat as real, you will need the locket—you will need to access that part of your brain. It will fix you.”

“Alex?” I swallow hard. “Why does Franco want control?”

“It’s not necessarily control. It’s life. And it’s yours or his.”

***

"Ready to go home?" Alex asks.

I wrap my arm around his and kiss his cheek. "You’re still with me. And we’re going home." Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he just can’t drift into the future anymore. Could I be so naïve to think that could really be the case? I have to figure this out. Maybe I can protect him from this supposed end he’s sure of.

The look on his face tells me he’s still sure it's coming. Maybe the plane is going to go down and it’ll be my end too. The thought makes me sick. I can’t leave Sammy. This is why he never wanted me to drift to a future time. Maybe Kiera would know? She's been drifting to future times. I wonder if she saw Alex there. If she did, maybe this whole 'the end' thing isn't real after all. I have to find her.

"You're awfully calm for being on a plane," Alex says, rubbing his hand in a circular motion over my knee.

"I have to find Kiera. She can tell us what's going on in the future. Wouldn't you like to know if she sees you there?"

Alex looks away from me and focuses on the folded up meal tray in front of him. "I’ve already told you what happens, Chloe. There's no need to track her down." He nods his head and closes his eyes before glancing out the window. I lean my head back against the flat cardboard-like headrest and close my eyes, hoping to doze off.

The screaming of the wheels as it hits the tarmac wakes me from a deep sleep of blackness. We silently file off the plane and make our way out to the parking garage where my car awaits us.

The engine roars, the wipers sweep across the windshield, squealing as it clears off the slight sheen of dew. The air conditioner blows a gust of stale mildew smelling air into our faces. I breathe heavily as I pull my seatbelt over my chest. Alex clenches his fists around the steering wheel and throws it into reverse.

Nothing like waiting for death to strike. My heart can’t pound any harder. I think my ribcage might be bruised from the constant thumping. I twist and turn the wedding band around my finger as I search my mind for words or questions. With each minute passing, the fear encompassing his body grows stronger—sweat on his forehead, trembling hands and heavy breathing make it all clear. And yet, I keep trying to believe that we're closer to safety. He notices me fidgeting with my ring and pulls my hand up to his mouth.

"Never take this off. Promise? It’s part of your heart and your mind. It’s part of you and me. This will always symbolize us."

My body hurts and I'm angry that he keeps talking like this. Why won't he accept the fact that he might be wrong? He has to be wrong. I can't even respond to him. All I can do is shake my head, telling him to stop. Why would I ever want to take this ring off? We're never going to be apart. He promised me that. Why would he promise me that if he didn't think he would be around to live up to that promise?

"Alex. You aren't going anywhere. Just get it out of your mind. Please," I say, pulling my hand away from his mouth so I can stop the tear that's dripping into the corner where my lips meet.

Driving along the shore, knowing we're only a few blocks from home gives me even more assurance that everything is going to be fine. Alex was acting as if he was never setting foot back into the apartment again. If I can just prove one theory of his to be wrong—maybe if he could see that he was wrong, he'll stop assuming the end is near.

We pull into the parking lot and park in our usual spot. "See?" I place my hand on his shoulder and smile. "We're here, and we're both in one piece. Will you stop worrying now?"

He looks at me and stares into my eyes. His face relaxes and his crooked grin appears. "You're right, Chlo." He places his hand around the side of my face and pulls me in for a kiss. His lips linger and the coconut scent wafting from his skin causes me to melt into the seat. "Maybe I was wrong," he says. "Maybe I was confusing the future with a nightmare. That could happen, right?" No. That can’t happen. He’s lying to me. He’s trying to make me feel better. He doesn’t believe that being home in one piece means anything different than what he thought when we were at the chasm or Paris.

“Alex, come on.” I say, cocking my head to the side. I’m calling his bluff. Whatever the case, he made me forget about my fears for half a second.

"Can you grab all that stuff in the backseat? Your backpack wasn't zipped and things fell out," he says. "I'll grab the bags from the trunk."

His door closes and I lean over the middle console into the backseat to pick up the few scattered items. As I'm retrieving the last item, I hear a bang on my window. It startles me and I fly backward to see what it was.

Two black circular eyes stare me in the face before its beak pounds back into my window again. This time, the bird falls to the ground. According to Google, the page I tried hard to skip over a hundred times, if a black bird flies into your window, it's a sign of impending doom—death. But I'm not superstitious and I refuse to believe something so absurd. I open my car door, preparing to see another dead bird below my feet, but there’s nothing there. I’d ask myself if I’m going nuts, but I think I already know the answer to that. I yell for Alex, but before the words can escape my mouth, I feel the car bounce along with a loud metallic thud. I pull myself out of the car and turn my head toward the trunk.

Everything is happening in slow motion. I stop moving and grab a hold of the door for support. All I can see are his feet and legs. The car didn’t hit him. Nothing hit him. Why is he on the ground?

“Alex?” I call out calmly, waiting and praying for a response. I’m too scared to move, too scared to see the truth. He loves those damn Converse sneakers he wears with everything. He buys a new pair every three months. He hates when the toe part has scuff marks on it. He ruined the ones he’s wearing now. Water stains from the snow and running from the gray suits earlier didn’t do much for keeping his shoes white.

“Alex?” I call again. Maybe he's looking at a leak under the car. Why aren't my feet moving any closer to him? Why can't I move from this spot? My body feels numb. My mind is numb. I can’t think.

I clench my fists together tightly, regardless of not being able to feel the muscles in my arms. I can feel the pain from my fingernails digging into my skin. I pull myself a step closer, revealing more of his flattened legs. A cough interrupts my train of thought and I immediately snap to all my senses. He's alive. I fall to the ground and drag myself around the car to find the rest of him. His eyes are open, and I don't see any blood. I climb up to the top of his body and kneel at his head. "Alex? Why are you on the ground?" I ask shakily.

"Everything you need is on top of my dresser. If you want those things to stay with you wherever you go, keep them in your heart and they’ll be with you forever.” He coughs some more. His eyes are lost and unfocused. “Chloe, listen to me.” His voice is so gravelly. He’s struggling. But why? He looks fine. He has to be okay. “This had to happen like this. It's the only way to reset."

"I don't understand, Alex. You're not hurt." I kiss his cheek and comb my fingers through his silky curls. "Come on, get up." I say loudly.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to compose my frantic breaths.

“Chloe, this drift will not exist without us both here, which is why this has to happen like this. Go home. It’s the only way,” he says, his words fading into the air.

I feel my fingers glide through his arm as if he was liquefying. My hands aren't wrapped around him anymore. The scent of coconut is just a memory. I peer through the glossy film of tears covering my eyes. He's gone. I let out the most wretched shriek my body can muster up. The pain in my body is too much. I want to die too. I can’t be here without him. “Why?” I scream. “Why Alex?” My tears are burning down my face. “Come back to me,” I cry louder. “Please, Alex! Don’t leave me!” My screams go mute. I scrape my fingernails down my face, needing to feel pain somewhere other than in my heart. The pain doesn’t compare. There is no physical pain that could come close to this turmoil. I can’t go on without him.

I can’t.

Wait. He’s not dead. This isn’t his real life. He’s not dead. I have to get back to our real life to prove he’s not dead. I scoot back against the trunk of my car and close my eyes tightly. I clench my arms around my knees and rock back and forth, trying to erase the image of his dead eyes looking up at me. More cries escape from my throat. I can’t focus on anything else. I have to push through this. I have to prove he isn’t gone. I can’t believe he’s dead. I can’t. He’s only twenty-four.

This isn’t possible.

I begin counting backwards inbetween sobs and choking on the pressurized air that's barely giving me enough oxygen to breathe.

Alex, I have to focus on Alex. Focus on his piercing blue eyes, his blond wavy hair, his perfectly placed freckles, his scent, his hands and the way they feel around my face. His lips, the way they feel on my lips. Please be alive. Please be okay.

I’ll do anything.

Anything.

CHAPTER ELEVEN:

FINALLY GOT HIS WAY

THE FAMILIAR BLACKNESS comforts me and brings me hope that Alex will be at the other end.

Falling, falling, death to life . . .

I drop against a soft surface. I place my hands around me, moving them in a circular motion on the bed. I'm here to visit once a week, but this time it isn't the same. When I open my eyes, I'll have my answer.

I squint my eyes tighter and pull in a deep breath. I open my eyes slowly and glance around the room. Floral wallpaper, two twin sized beds, a bureau, and a closet. Charlie’s house has been a resting place for Alex, Sammy and I for the past four years. She watches over us while we inhabit a life in another reality, one that all three of us can exist in consciously. I actually don’t think Sammy has ever been fully awake here, but she has taken good care of him for us. I know she brings him to semi-consciousness three times a day to feed him, which I owe her my life for. She tucks him in every night and makes sure that he’s well taken care of in this reality.

The house is quiet; Charlie must be at work now since it’s midday.

I pull my weak body from the bed. My ankles wobble as I make my way over to the closet. I drop to my knees and throw the doors open before tossing all of the clothes onto the floor.

Nothing.

I drag myself over to the closest bed, searching underneath and moving over to the other bed to look under that one too.

Nothing.

My chest constricts any air flow. It hurts. I swallow my incoming sobs and clamber over to the door. It's locked, like always. Charlie keeps us locked in here so Alex can’t get out and hurt himself like he used to at the institution.

If the door is locked, then where is he? As the question floats through my mind, my eyes scan the room until they reach the window.

It’s open.

We’re on the third floor.

I nod my head, refusing to believe. Denial. That’s what this must be. I walk over to the window. Each step, feeling like twelve. When my fingertips reach the windowsill, I pull myself closer to the opening. I clench my eyes shut and poke my head outside.

If I look down, I will know the truth. Why isn't this window locked? It has always been locked? How could Charlie have left this open? She wouldn’t have.

“Charlie,” I yell, knowing she isn’t home. Knowing I’m all alone. Left to face the inevitable truth that my eyes will confirm in a matter of milliseconds.

For as long as I keep my eyes closed, he is alive to me. I don’t have to believe it until I see it. He’s still alive.

Until. I. Open. My. Eyes.

A cool breeze swooshes across my face. My bangs sway to the side. My eyes open on their own. I tried to fight it, but they opened anyway.

Alex.

Motionless.

Pale.

Dead.

Dead in this real world—this real horrible cruel world.

Dead in our dream-world.

Dead everywhere.

He’s gone.

I’m alone.

Forever.

The fall was only three floors, but her yard has a steep slope where the basement meets the ground, making us almost four stories high. He jumped, or fell. He finally got his way. He’s been trying to do this since I met him, here in this real world.

He wasn't worried about being killed by Franco. He knew he was going to do this to himself. I have to call the police. Maybe they can still save him. I run back into the room and lift the phone off of the bureau. My brain keeps reciting 9-1-1, but my fingers won't move.

I have to save him. My legs give out and I fall to the ground. I press my face into the hardwood floors until it hurts. I dig my nails into the floor until the pain shoots up my arms. As the inflicting pain begins to set in, my mind rests for a moment, and I suddenly understand the implications of calling the police.

They will think I did this to him. They will find out he's a psych patient and Charlie will lose her job. I will be put back into the institution. I'll never be able to read what's in Alex's notebook. The answers to this have to be in there. That's why he laid all of that stuff out there for me. This is why we went to distract Franco with a replica. He was setting me up to remain safe, without him.

But shouldn’t I try to save him first? I lean out of the window again, eyeballing the distance to the ground. I'm not sure if I would survive climbing out of this window. My eyes focus on the whiteness of his complexion, the purple hue of his perfect lips, and the slight smile on his face. This is what he wanted. But is this what all parts of him wanted? Did he have a choice? Did his mind make him do this?

I pull myself back in again and fall backwards onto the bed. Why aren't tears falling from my eyes? Why isn't my mind telling me that my life is over? Maybe I'm dead inside now too.

I close my eyes and imagine myself sitting in front of my car in front of our parking lot. The drift back didn't feel warm or inviting. It felt hollow and lifeless. What am I going to tell Sammy and Celia? Did they already know?

The concrete below me is hard and has scratched up my legs. I open my eyes and see the barren spot where I watched Alex leave me for the final time. I stand with effort and look up at the apartment window. Celia is standing in the window, holding a tissue up to her nose. She knows.

I walk to the front entrance, but feel as though I'm on a treadmill. I keep walking, but I'm not moving. My legs hurt by the time I reach the door. I pull it open and start walking up the endless stairs. When I finally reach the last flight, I see our door at the top. It's open and Sammy's standing there waiting. When my head appears above the steps I'm climbing up, he begins barreling toward me with a huge smile. "Mommy!" he yells as he flings his little arms around my neck.

What am I going to tell him? I've been holding him for minutes now, not moving and he hasn't let go or asked me where Alex is. I lift him up and carry him up the rest of the stairs and bring him into the apartment where Celia is waiting. Her face is splotchy and the redness diminishes the bruises on her face. She walks over to me and wraps her arms around Sammy and me. Her sobs increase in volume and her body begins to tremble against mine. The pain emanating from her throat stabs me like a knife.

"I have to keep reminding myself it's only temporary," she cries into my shoulder.

"What do you mean, Celia?" I ask.

"You'll figure it out."

I pull away, and anger quickly replaces my pain. I know I should stop myself from lashing out, but I'm done with the mind games and I'm done with the riddles. She backs away just as quick and puts her hands up in defense, as if I would actually hurt her.

"Chloe, I don't know anything. All I know is the few things Alex has told me. He always told me this living situation was temporary. I can only hope this is what he meant."

I close my eyes and try to calm myself down. I came back here to see what he had placed on the top of his bureau for me. The part that I can't seem to wrap my head around is the fact that he did this to himself. There had to have been a reason.

I walk into our bedroom and stop in the doorway. Why am I not breaking down right now? I'm walking into the bedroom that I share with my husband—my husband who just died in front of me. How long does it take for shock to wear off? Is that what this is? I'm angry with him for doing this to me—for leaving me in life to deal with my condition, alone. Why would he leave me like this?

I walk over to his bureau, but stop along the way when I pass by his side of the bed. I lie down for a minute and smother my face into his pillow. It smells like him. The harder I press my face into the cloth-covered feathers, my eyes become shielded from all light, allowing me to see him. “Why, Alex?” I yell into the pillow. I sit up and throw his pillow across the room, hitting a picture frame on the wall and knocking it to the ground. I watch the pieces shatter as tears break through my anger, flooding my emotions with memories and realizations of how alone I feel without him.

Regardless of how little I want to read his notebook right now, I know I need answers. I press my fingers into my temples and rub in circular patterns to alleviate some of the tension in my head. I stand up and watch my feet move below me even though I can't feel anything from my waist down.

I place my hand on the notebook, and I can't feel the texture of the leather bounding. I can only feel the pins and needles that are surging through my fingers and hands.

I lift the notebook and carry it over to the bed. As I place the book down, the folded paper he had placed on top slides off onto my lap. I place it inside of the book cover and turn to the first page.

I read the first line and I slam the book closed. I can't do this.

I lean back on the bed and stare up to the ceiling. “Why did you do this to me, Alex?” I ask the empty air around me.

I hear a soft knock on the door before it opens slightly. Sammy walks in with his head bowed toward the ground and he climbs up onto the bed with me. The comforter bounces a bit as he gets comfortable under the sheets.

"What's this, Mommy?" he asks, pointing to the notebook.

"It’s Daddy's notebook."

"Oh yeah," he responds quietly.

"You've seen this before?" I ask.

He looks at me with his large blue eyes and doesn't flinch. He knows something and I wish he didn't—or maybe I do. This is too much for a four-year-old to handle.

"Mommy?"

I look over at his sweet face. "Yes, Sammy?"

"Daddy loves you so much, and me too." He smiles.

"I know he did." I hug him tightly, feeling the pain begin to emerge again. I have to be strong for Sammy.

Sammy pulls away and places his hands on my shoulders. "He still does."

I nod my head, wishing I could understand the depths of Sammy's knowledge. The older he becomes, the less I can figure out where his mind is.

"Mommy, read Daddy's notebook tonight. Okay?" He lifts up the book and hands it to me. "Promise, Mommy?"

"I will, sweetie." I place it back down on the bed. "Come on, let's get you tucked in." I pick him up and he wraps his arms and legs around me tightly.

Alex normally puts him to bed, but he won't ever get to do that again. I'm a single mom. I never imagined my life turning out this way. I wonder if Sammy really understands that Alex is gone, for good.

Probably not, I suppose. How can a four-year-old understand what forever means?

As I walk across the hallway, I see Celia sitting silently on the couch, staring out the window. Her eyes are wide and she looks like a zombie. The boy she raised since seven-years-old is gone. She's been his mother in so many ways, and she had been the most important person in his life. I wonder if her pain is similar to mine. It has to be worse.

I place Sammy down on his bed and pull a pair of pajamas out of his top dresser drawer. "Is Scooby-Doo okay tonight?" I ask, holding up the pajamas in the air.

He nods his head as I walk over to the bed. I silently help him get dressed and he stares at the empty wall in front of him. After a minute or so of losing his attention, he finally looks back to me and smiles—an Alex smile. I can't help but to smile at that little face, no matter how much I'm hurting. He will always remind me of Alex, and I'm thankful to have a part of him that's still here. I pull the sheet up to his chin and hand him his favorite teddy bear that Alex gave to him on his second birthday. “Will you be okay in here yourself tonight?” I ask.

He nods his head and closes his eyes. I’m guessing there won’t be any more demon birds at his window tonight. I shut the lights off and tell myself I can stop being brave now.

I walk out into the living room to check on Celia, who hasn't moved an inch from where I saw her a few minutes ago. I nudge her shoulder, but she still doesn't move.

"Celia?" I kneel down in front of her and shake her a little harder.

She's gone. Her mind isn’t here anymore, and why should it be? First the attack by a gray suit, then Alex dying—it must have been too much for her. I can't say I blame her. But I need her right now, selfish or not—she's all I have besides Sammy.

I place a blanket over her lap and head back to my very empty bedroom. The only thing my eyes can focus on is the notebook that I don't want to read. I promised Sammy I'd read it, but how could he possibly know what's inside?

I climb into my cold bed and place my legs under the uninviting comforter. I fluff my pillow and lean back with a box of tissues in one hand and the notebook in my other. “Alex, you better not make me cry anymore today,” I say out loud, wondering if he can hear me.

I re-open the notebook again to the first page and take a deep breath before focusing on the first word.

ALEX

I feel like my life is restarting today. I've spent the last few months looking for an opportunity to speak to her. But it never seemed like a good time. I watched as Chloe appeared and disappeared from the beach near my house in San Diego. Most of the time she’s looked hurt, lonely, and confused. I had the feeling she was too fragile to be approached. So, I didn't.

Today, however, she was drowning—not like a normal person swimming out into a riptide and losing their bearings, but a special person, like us who drifted at the wrong time in the wrong place. As I was walking down the shore, I saw a bunch of people staring at this poor girl who looked to have fallen asleep too close to the tide. No one was helping her or trying to save her—they were all just gawking.

At first, I didn't know it was Chloe, but as I got closer, my heart stopped beating when I saw her beautiful long auburn hair, fair skin and reddish freckles that made her face look like it had always been sun kissed. I didn't know if she was dead or alive—I just knew I had to try and save her.

My eyes settled on her blue lips, and I silently cursed all of the witnesses for not helping this poor girl out of the water. What is wrong with people, really? Who would just watch someone drown in less than a foot of water?

Anyway, I pulled her out and onto the sand. She wasn't breathing and neither was I. The one girl I knew I had to be with more than anything was lying in front of me, suffocating by water.

That wasn't how I intended our lips to touch for the first time. I had always imagined it being a little more romantic, but nevertheless, the second my lips touched hers it was as if I tasted life for the first time. My heart that had stopped beating moments earlier, felt as if it had been hit by lightening and overcharged by electricity.

I blew my air into her mouth, praying that it was enough to keep her alive. I needed her to be alive, because I had never felt so alive. And it wasn't fair for me to feel like that alone.

After a dozen breaths, I felt her chest beneath my hand move up and down. An uncontrollable smile stretched across my face, and I blew one more gust of air into her warm lips.

I pulled my face away slowly, watching her eyes struggle to open. Her green eyes—the color of summer's grass surrounded by a ring of forest green and speckled with tiny blue sparkles focused on my face. Her cheeks reddened as her eyes studied me, but I don't think she remembered who I was. I think she was embarrassed to have a stranger so close. And that’s all I was to her: a stranger.

She sat up quickly—disoriented and confused. Humiliation struck her face when she saw the people who did nothing to save her all standing there—all of them standing there and watching her every move. I tried to comfort her. I needed to make sure she was okay. I knew it was only seconds before she'd run from me, and I have no clue when I'd get another chance to talk to her.

Oh man, I need to be with her so badly. I think I might love her, and she doesn't even know who I am.

He was in love with me that first day we officially met? That explains why he was looking at me the way he was. I had no idea he had been missing me for all of those years. I was kind of mean to him that first week. I didn't believe him and I thought he was some psycho. I wish I could take it back now. He's never been anything but patient with me, and I've done nothing but cause problems or be the cause of problems. He didn't deserve that and I didn't deserve him.

I turn to the next page in the notebook, and I notice that the writing is different. It's similar but all of the letters have sharp corners.

ALEX

Another day in the dark today. I can't stand that fucking hospital anymore. Everyone thinks I'm brain dead and trying to kill myself. No one knows that I'm fully aware of what's going on. I just can't speak. It's like the connection between my brain and my mouth was cut. They treat me like I've done something bad. I opened the window to get some fresh air today, and before I could inhale the incoming breeze, four hands wrapped around my body and dragged me away. They placed that damn straitjacket around me so tight that my ribs hurt now. They think I have anger issues, and truth be told, I do. But it's because I can't tell anyone that I'm there and I can think on my own. Yeah sure, sometimes I might be more out of it than other times, but a lot of the time there is a mind behind the eyes that they all seem to think are dead. It's infuriating that they gave up on me years ago. I hate that part of me. I hate being in that place I'm supposed to refer to as my real life. It's so much easier living here with Celia. I shouldn’t have drifted back to a reality that’s really only a nightmare.

I had no idea he was suffering so much. He always made it sound like he had these multiple realities under control. It kind of sounds like that wasn't quite the case. They were pretty rough with him at the institution, but it was because he couldn't communicate and he was angry all of the time. I wish I had known, and I wish I had tried to help him more. I can't read anymore tonight.

This is killing me.

I close the notebook and place it on Alex's pillow. It’s all I have left of him now. I pull his pillow into my body and hold it tightly.

I squeeze my eyes shut and visualize the room my body is in at Charlie’s house.

Darkness that will always remain dark now…

When I feel the contours of the bed beneath me shift, I know it's safe to open my eyes.

Lying in the position I'm in, I can see Charlie across the room, sitting on Alex's bed. She's staring at the wall with puffy swollen eyes.

"Hi," I croak out of my mouth without shifting my body.

Charlie nearly falls to the floor when she hears my voice and scampers over to the bed I'm lying in. "Chloe, oh my goodness. I'm so sorry, Chloe. I'm so sorry. I don't know how this happened? I don't remember leaving that window unlocked. I don't know how I could have been so stupid, Chloe. This is entirely my fault," she cries.

Her hands are wrapped around my arm, almost pleading for me to say something. This wasn't her fault. This is what Alex needed. I know there was a method behind his madness. I just haven't figured it out yet.

I place my other hand over Charlie’s white knuckles and say, "Charlie—"

"Stop, Chloe. I'm so sorry. Sammy, what about Sammy? He doesn't have a dad anymore, because of me," she continues crying.

"Charlie, shh. This is what Alex needed. He knew it was coming and he said it had to happen this way. I still don't know why, but this was his destiny," I explain.

"Why do you seem so calm about this?" she sniffles.

"What choice do I have?" I prop myself up against the wall. "I have to trust that he had a plan. Alex always had a plan.” I sigh. “When did you call the police?"

"A couple of hours ago. I told them there was a dead man outside of my house. They said they would be back soon for a more in-depth investigation. They're probably going to think I killed him," she says, squeezing her hands together.

"Maybe at first, but I'm sure they'll eventually figure out he did this to himself," I say, trying to calm her worries.

"Chloe, even if I'm lucky enough for them to think that, they'll soon realize he was an escapee from the hospital and they'll put two-and-two together. I'm done."

Not only is Alex gone, but now Charlie is going to lose her job and could possibly be arrested for not reporting a missing person.

"What can I do, Charlie?" I slide my hand over hers. "This is all my fault."

"I'll worry about this, Chloe. You're grieving right now. You don't need to worry about me too," she says, pulling me in for a hug.

"Do you know what hospital he was taken to?" I ask.

"UMass Memorial. He's probably already in the morgue though. You shouldn’t go there. Once they figure out who you are, they'll put you between padded walls again. But because he has no family, they'll probably have a small service in the hospital chapel. If you call the hospital tomorrow, they might have a better idea as to when it would be. If you insist on going to the service, which I would completely understand, you should make sure your face is somewhat concealed so no one recognizes you."

"Got it," I say softly. The thought of going to Alex's funeral is suddenly more than I can handle. That makes this all official, and I'm not ready for that yet.

"You should go back to Sammy, Chloe," Charlie says.

"I feel terrible leaving you alone in this situation," I say.

"It's okay. Just go be with Sammy. He needs you right now. I'll be okay."

“I’ll be back tomorrow, Charlie.” I give her another hug and climb back into my bed.

I focus on Sammy, my little Alex. I focus on how cold San Diego suddenly seems. I focus on how hard my life is going to be without him.

Pain seeps through the open wounds in my heart. Each time I drift, the ache increases. Desolation grows within my soul. My heart beats to a different rhythm. My heart will never beat the way it did when I saw Alex.

My body sinks into the bed and knife-like tingles sweep across my skin. The faint orange light in my bedroom burns through my eyelids.

Emptiness feels heavy like an iron weight.

I’ve felt depression before. I’ve felt sorry for myself before. Alex removed those feelings from my life and replaced them with happiness and love. That has been stripped away, leaving me with pain, morbidity, and more darkness.

I cross my arms behind my head while leaning back against my unforgiving pillow and close my eyes.

Alex.

It’s all I can see. His feet pointing to the sky, his legs flat against the ground. Weakness. I can hear his voice.

I need this pain to stop.

I suck in a deep breath of air until my lungs can’t hold any more air. I close my mouth and pinch my nose. I concentrate on the swirled lines of the ceiling, waiting for numbness to set in. I don’t want to die. I just don’t want to feel anything. My heart starts beating frantically, answering the crying screams of my constricted lungs. First the pain increased, making me want to panic, but now it feels good. Euphoric. My lips tingle, and my head presses harder into the pillow. My toes go numb, then my legs, my waist, my stomach, my chest and arms, and now my head. I feel nothing. It feels good. I wonder if this is what dying feels like? Like nothingness.

CHAPTER TWELVE:

UNCONSCIOUS LOVE

IT'S 2:00 A.M., my eyes are closed, but I’m awake. The numbness subsided an hour ago, and now I feel pain again. I wonder how long I can go without sleep? I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to shut my mind off again, and yet, that’s all I want to do.

Irritated with my mind, I prop myself up against the headboard and swipe the notebook from my nightstand. I sweep my hand over the leather cover and open the notebook to where I left off earlier.

ALEX

What a day—finding Chloe unconscious in my backyard was such a horrifying moment. She was covered in blood from head to toe and I couldn't wake her, no matter what I did. I can't for the life of me figure out what happened to her. I know her mother keeps pretty tight reins on her, so how could she have gotten this hurt?

After sitting with her for a bit, trying to snap her out of her unconsciousness, I lifted her up in my arms and carried her upstairs to my bedroom. We've only hung out a few times, so I didn't know how she'd react to waking up in my bed. I'm still not even sure we're emotionally on the same page. I tried to kiss her the other night when I pointed out the shooting star, but she wouldn't even look at me. I had seen that shooting star before; I knew that moment was coming. I just didn’t know how it would play out. I was hoping differently, I guess.

I couldn't take my eyes off of her lips. They were shimmering in the moonlight, inviting me in, but her eyes were lost in the ocean and couldn't have been farther away from mine.

She has to wake up. I feel like I'm going to lose my mind right now. There's so much I need to tell her. Please God, make Chloe be okay.

I close the notebook and toss it back onto the nightstand, causing a bunch of scrap papers to fly out from the last page. They float down onto the bed, showing that it's a torn up letter.

I place all of the pieces together. It appears to be a note from Alex.

ALEX

Chloe-

You must go home to your mother. Bring Sammy with you. Everything you need, you will find there. You can't live in this non-existent reality anymore. I know this isn't what you want to hear, and that's the exact reason I didn't tell you before I left. Just, please—

Love,

Alex

He wants me to go back to that hellhole? Is he out of his mind? No, never mind—he doesn't have a mind anymore. He destroyed it and mine as well. Besides, I will not bring Sammy home to that wench. God knows what she would do to him. If this life isn't real, then neither is this stupid note. He ripped it up. Maybe he didn’t mean for me to see it. Maybe he changed his mind.

I brush the papers off of my bed and walk back down to the living room where Celia was.

She's gone. Of course. Why wouldn't she be gone? Why? It's because I need her right now. "What the hell, Celia!" I yell to an empty room. This drift is disintegrating around me. It seems to be what happens when Alex isn’t around.

My voice must have carried too loudly down the hall since I hear Sammy moving around his bedroom. I quickly walk toward his room to try and settle him down, but I end up meeting him halfway down the hall. He runs into me and wraps his arms around my legs.

"Mommy, do what Daddy said. I'll meet you there."

"What are you talking about, Sammy?" I ask.

"The letter. You have to listen to him."

"Sammy, that letter was torn up. He obviously didn't mean for me to read it."

"Yes, he did," he says, grabbing my hand. "Just go. I'll meet you there." He hugs me again and starts toward his bedroom.

“Honey,” I try to stall him, unable to think clearly. “We need to do this the right way. We need to drift to Aunt Charlie’s house. Do you understand?” Without a question he skips off into his room, growling, and making monstrous noises of excitement.

I reenter my bedroom and pace around in circles, contemplating what to do. Why am I purposely going to go and admit myself to my own personal asylum at my parents’ house? And drag Sammy there on top of it. Why would Alex even ask me to do that?

I walk back into his bedroom to tell him I'm not going, but he's standing in front of me with a smile on his face. “I know I have to drift to Aunt Charlie’s. That’s where we’re awake all of the time, right?“

“In a sense, yes. If you drift there, when you wake up, you will not be in a drift anymore. I know this is confusing, honey.”

He laughs at me as if I’m the one who’s confused. “This isn’t confusing, Mommy, I get it.”

I grab the notebook and Alex's leather jacket and clutch them both tightly against my body as I slide down against the wall. These items are part of my heart, please let them stay with me, I plead .to my screwed up brain. I pull Sammy down with me and ask him to count backwards with me. He laughs again and reminds me that he doesn’t need to count before he drifts. This kid still amazes me more and more every day.

With the world that once made me happy, spinning around my head like a vortex, I fall aimlessly into the darkness that I’ve tried so hard to stay away from. But in the end, it seems that this is the only place I’m meant to be, some place where my mind is actually connected to my body—reality.

I open my eyes and find Sammy rubbing his eyes next to me, waking up as if he just had a restful night’s sleep. “Ready to go now?” he says, with a croaky voice.

I look down at my clenched hands and tears drop from my eyes when I see Alex’s jacket, notebook and my ring still with me. I guess they really are a part of my heart.

I wipe my eyes and suck in a deep breath, reminding myself that I have to continue to be strong for Sammy. “Yes, Sammy, but we’re taking the long way this time.” I open the top drawer and pull out the emergency credit card Charlie left for me in here. I’ll pay her back, somehow.

***

An excruciating and terrifying cab ride later, we arrive in hell—or my mother’s house, as I should probably refer to it, for Sammy’s sake. I never wanted my mother to meet Sammy, or to ever have an effect on his life. Now, I’m about to welcome her back, but hardly with open arms. I’m back at square one—no drift, no escape, and no Alex. But at least I have Sammy.

I walk in through the front door with hesitation, unsure of what to expect after Alex and I drifted here the other day. That was in my drift though, and this is real. There will be none of Franco’s summoned men waiting for us this time. That was all in my head.

I turn into the kitchen with Sammy’s arm clenched between my fingers. My mother is spinning around the kitchen whipping up some kind of burnt food I’m sure. A stroke of shock hits my nerves as my eyes dart over to the kitchen table. Is that—?

“Dr. Greene, Mother?” I say abruptly.

My mother twists around, brushing the bangs out of her face. “Chloe?” She seems startled by my presence.

I swallow the knot in my throat as I say, “Yeah, it’s me. I’m home—I mean, here.” While I feel a momentary sensation of being a child here again, I regain my awareness of the surroundings—my son standing behind me and my goddamn therapist sitting at my fucking breakfast table. “What are you doing here?” I direct my narrowed eyes at Dr. Greene.

“Honey, it’s not how it looks,” my mother says, stumbling over her words. Dr. Greene, ashamed and suddenly shy looks away from me and down to his twiddling fingers.

“I’m pretty sure it’s exactly how it appears.” I nod my head, shocked by this, but then again, should I be this surprised after what she did to me in the first place? He’s always been in on this with her. I shouldn’t have been so naïve to think they were over after he was fired.

“Sammy?” my mother reaches behind me, seeking out Sammy’s hand. I push him away, instinctively and protectively as a mother bear would do with her cub. “I’m your—“

“Don’t even think about saying that to him. You aren’t even worthy of being called a mother.”

Sammy disregards my hovering behavior and places his hand into hers. Do I rip him away? She doesn’t deserve his kindness. "Sammy, what are you doing?" I ask, keeping my voice quiet.

"What do I have to do to make things right with you, Chloe?" She wipes a dripping tear. "I want to be a part of your and Sammy's life."

"Of course you do, now that Alex is gone."

"What? What are you talking about?" she asks, sweeping her bangs out of her eyes again.

I open my mouth, but the words don't seem to come out. I can feel the rush of pain moving up from my stomach through my throat and burning the nerves behind my eyes.

"Daddy died," Sammy says softly, reaching for my hand.

My mother places her hands over her chest and takes a couple of hesitant steps toward me. "What happened, Chloe?"

"You got your wish," I respond.

"What is that in your hand?" she asks, staring at Alex's notebook.

"Nothing." I place it behind my back. "Sammy, let's go." I reach for his arm. "Oh, and by the way, please tell Dad I miss him. I'd like to know where he is." I pause and wait for any type of response. Her eyes glaze over and she stares aimlessly through the window behind me. Oh for God’s sake, what the hell is wrong with her now?

She snaps out of her blankness, ignoring my comment and looks over at Sammy again, but this time with a peculiar fake smile. "Chloe, I just want to get to know my grandson. Please don't take him away already."

"Why? So you can corrupt him too?" I snap. "Sammy, let's go. Now." I tug on his arm and pull him out the front door. "God help you if you did anything to Dad. I will find out," I yell behind me. “And you,” I look back at Dr. Greene. I place my hands over Sammy’s ears. “You’re a lousy excuse for a human being, and you’re an asshole. Go ahead and fuck my mother. You know where that’ll get you?” I release one of my hands from Sammy’s head and shove two fingers into the side of my head. “Your mind will end up just like mine. That’s what this woman does to people.” I cover Sammy’s ears once more. “She mind-fucks people until they want nothing more than to die. So I guess this is what you deserve. You two deserve each other.”

I pull Sammy out of the house and slam the door behind us. The second our feet hit the driveway Sammy stops and pulls his arm out of my grasp. "Mommy, stop. You have to finish reading what Daddy wrote to you. Please."

“Why, Sammy?” I turn him around to look at me. I crouch down to his eye level. “Tell me what you know.”

He shakes his head and closes his eyes. “I only know that Daddy told me to make sure you read his entire notebook.”

“Where is Daddy right now?” I’m terrified to hear his response.

He giggles a little as if I just said something funny. For the life of me, I can’t find anything funny about this. “He’s awake.” He laughs again. “That’s all, Mommy. He’s just awake.”

Awake?

“Can you explain that to me?”

He shakes his head and says, “Just read the notebook.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN:

UNTOLD TRUTHS

I DON’T KNOW where to go. I could circle around here for hours and still not have a clue as to what I’m supposed to do next. Although, all answers lead me back to the notebook. I can’t understand why he wouldn’t just tell me everything he needed me to know when he was alive, rather than making me dissect word by word every page in his notebook. The only things I’ve read so far are breaking my heart, not giving me the information I need.

The street leads me to the town library, and I'm reminded how I've never been allowed in here before. My mother was always afraid I'd make too much noise and people would stare. It wasn’t like I had outbursts or even left my mother’s side.

The scent of dust and old lady’s perfume floats around us. It smells comforting. I lead Sammy to the back of the library, away from anyone else. There is a set of leather couches in the shape of a square, with a large oak coffee table in the center. On one side of the couches there is a shelf filled with children’s books. I pull down a stack of the books and set Sammy down next to me.

Sammy doesn’t touch any of the books I give him. Instead, he turns his body to stare at me. "Sam, this is going to take me a while to get through," I remind him.

He takes the notebook from my hands and opens it to the middle of the book. “Then, start here.” He smiles.

ALEX

She found out about the locket. But I think the thought of it still confuses her. How do you explain to someone that the tangible items in our dream world are mere representations of things in our minds? Maybe I’m not doing a good enough job of explaining this to her. Maybe I don’t want to. She’s happy here, and I want her to feel like this place can be as real as the painful world her body currently exists in. Maybe I’m selfish. I don’t want this dream to end, and it will if she figures out what the locket actually represents. I don’t want her to wake up until I wake up.

If I explained this to her, she’d think this is just a simple dream, and I didn’t exist. But in reality, we’re carving a different path for our lives to take. I know the mind is made up of fact, fiction, happiness, and fears. Chloe’s mind seems to play out her worst fears, but at the same time, the things that make her happy.

That’s what makes her special. That’s what allows her to dream like others can’t. Her dreams actually mold her future; they create the path that she will always be happy with. She will always know which way to go and what to do. She’s lucky. Nevertheless, she doesn’t know it. Most people contemplate life decisions not knowing which choice will be the right one. However, Chloe will always know what will lead her to the life she wants to live.

Seriously Alex? Was anything you ever told me the truth? How the hell am I supposed to find this stupid locket if it’s in my freaking head?

I dig my nails into the leather couch, and Sammy reaches across me and turns the page in the notebook and points to the top line. How does he know what it says? He can’t read yet. This is becoming more infuriating by the minute.

ALEX

Chloe, if you're reading this, I'm no longer around and I'm so sorry for the pain I must be causing you right now. But, like I hopefully explained, things had to happen this way in order for us to both have our happy ending.

You're probably about to get pretty angry, so, take a deep breath and look away from Sammy.

Your mother has the locket, and she doesn't want you to have it. She controls your mind. She made it that way when you were seven years old. When I handed you the locket as a little girl, you went home and told your mother about it. She knew exactly what it was, what the meaning of it was. It was the cause of your sporadic unconscious moments; the part of your mind that kept shutting out the real world. She wanted to make sure you never found it again. She wanted to make sure you couldn’t access that part of your mind again. When you can, you will wake up.

Chloe, right now, you are stuck in a dream. A lucid dream. The locket will help you wake up. It will give you a fresh start. It will change the path your life is heading in.

All of your fears will be proven wrong. The hatred in your life will become happiness once again. Your childhood will contain memories. Your dreams will just be dreams. You will be normal. No more nightmares. Your parents will love you for who you are.

Because I am gone now, it is the right time to retrieve the locket from your mother. I know the struggle you will go through to locate it with her, and I know she is a force to be reckoned with. But, I promise you this—when you find it, you will see me again.

Good luck, Chlo. I can't wait to see you again.

Love,

Alex

Okay, so let me get this straight. The necklace isn't really The Necklace of Death, yet when I get my hands on the contents of the locket, I will be with Alex again—who's dead. Sort of still sounds like a symbol of death to me. Does he want me to end my life too? Is that what this is all about? I couldn't leave Sammy behind and I never will. Maybe my mother should hang onto The Necklace of Death. It might do her some good.

I turn to look at Sammy, but quickly notice that he's gone. "Sammy?" I shout across the library. I stand up and frantically begin searching through every row of books. When I reach the last row, I feel a hand on my shoulder and I whip my head around. My eyes meet the chest of a tall man and my stomach immediately begins doing summersaults, fearful of the gray suits catching onto the trickery Alex caused before he died.

As my eyes travel up his chest, I notice that he isn't wearing a suit. He has a simple loose fitting grey shirt, covered by a leather jacket. His hair is blond and gelled back, and his eyes—I know those eyes. But from where?

He leans down until he’s eye-level with me. "Hey. Everything is going to be fine, trust me. Just do what he says." The man smiles a familiar crooked grin and places a kiss on my cheek before turning around and disappearing behind a bookshelf.

I turn around and fall against a rack of books, shoving the palm of my hand into my eyes. It can't be—

"Mommy?"

I plunge forward onto my knees and grab Sammy by the shoulders. "Where were you, Sammy? You scared me," I scold him.

"I was just putting the books back," he says, smiling a mischievous smile.

"Do not walk off from me again. Do you understand?" I reprimand him, standing back up to catch my breath.

Sammy giggles, grabs my hand and leads me toward the exit. “Where did you go?” I ask, stepping out into the cold.

“You know.” He laughs again.

“Humor me. Tell me where you went?” I know I’m getting angrier than I should. But my own son knows things that I don’t know. I feel like I’m reading my own story.

And Alex and Sammy are the writers.

“Sammy?” I pull his attention away from the pavement. “Where did you go?”

“Far away. A long time from now.” He looks back down at the ground.

“Uh huh. That’s what I thought.” He drifted to the future. He knows what he’s doing. I know he can control it. But I wish he wouldn’t drift. It scares—Oh shit.

I sound like my mother.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I. Am. Not. My. Mother.

I shake the thought out of my head. I am not like her. I love Sammy. I want to protect him. I don’t hold him responsible for the way my life has turned out. I want him to be happy. But I want him to be safe, too.

“Sorry, Mommy,” Sammy says quietly. “Sorry I scared you.”

I wrap my arm around him and place a kiss on top of his head. “It’s okay. I know you’re trying to help me.”

The rest of the way back to the house, I ponder my plan of action to find where my mother has hidden the locket. Does such a thing even exist? I’m not sure I can understand how a tangible object can represent something that’s locked in my own head.

Could it be as simple as finding it in one of those boxes in my bedroom closet—where the rest of her hidden gems are? Am I supposed to have more clarity when I see this thing? Are all of the answers just going to come together for me? It is going to tell me how to fix my life, how to end it, or how to restart it? I know I need to read more. But I’ll be more eager to get through the notebook if I at least have the locket in my possession. Because right now, I have no idea how easy or hard it will be to acquire it, and the notebook is only causing me more pain and sorrow. It’s torturing me actually.

We round the corner to the street in which my childhood home penitentiary resides. My mother’s car is no longer in the driveway. She and Dr. Greene must have a hot date somewhere. I shudder from the thought.

“Grandma is gone,” Sammy says.

“Don’t call her that. She’s hardly a mother, never mind a grandmother.”

“What?” he asks, confused by my remarks about the woman who should love me the way I love him.

“Never mind. Let’s get back inside. Mommy has to find something.”

“I know, Mommy. You have to find the locket,” he says, bobbing his head back and forth, as if he’s heard this a million times and I’m boring him with my repetitiveness.

“You know about the locket?” I ask, amazed by his awareness.

“I’m four. Not dumb,” he says, as he rolls his eyes and sticks his tongue out the side of his mouth. I’ve seen Alex make the same face anytime I accused him of not knowing something I may have been more knowledgeable of—which I’m now seeing, is nothing. He was more perceptive about many things than I was. No wonder I got that look from him so often.

I settle Sammy down at my computer desk with a couple of markers and a pad of paper. “Here, draw a picture. Draw whatever makes you happy.” I smile at the thought of the drawing I made when I was just a little older than he is—the one Celia told Alex and I to draw of our ‘happy place.’

Sammy gives me a wide smile. “I know what makes me happy.” And I have a feeling whatever it is, will make me cry, again. This is not going to get any easier. I close my eyes for a brief second, imagining Alex here with me, watching Sammy draw his “happy” picture. I can almost feel him. He has to still be with me, somehow, someway. He’s part of my heart, so shouldn’t he still be here too?

A marker slams against my desk and my eyes bat open. “Red is next,” he says, using his four-year-old playful voice.

I turn around and eye the closet doors that conceal so many hidden secrets. Secrets that led me to Alex. Secrets that led me to Tomas, Franco, and James. I cross my fingers behind my back as I pull open the wooden door. The screaming noise the metal makes as they press against each other gives me goose bumps like it did as a child. I never got used to that noise and it still shoots chills up my spine. It’s like I’m releasing the ghosts that live in this closet.

There they are. All of the boxes are still lined up in three solid columns on the top shelf. I pull them all down. I dump each box out over my bed until my entire twin sized bed is covered in piles of notes, letters, and pictures. I sift through all of it until everything lies flat against my comforter. I place the contents back into the boxes, one piece at a time, making sure I don’t miss anything, like the locket. But there’s nothing here that doesn’t resemble some type of paper.

I knew it wasn’t likely I would find this thing that easily. I sit down on the bed and stare through the multiple boxes of what I’m now considering to be nothing more than trash. Where else can I look for it? It has to be in this house somewhere.

My thoughts are interrupted by footsteps, and I quickly place the six boxes on the floor and under my bed. Crap, she’s back. She’s going to corner me again. I can’t let her defeat me. I can’t let her know she’s getting to me again.

I have to be stronger than her.

I can be stronger than her.

I am stronger than her.

The door jolts open, and my eyes broaden at the unexpected face standing before me. I honestly thought he was dead. I figured she killed him and chopped up his body to feed to the squirrels.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN:

THE TRUTH

"CHLOE?"

I’m still in shock. I haven’t seen him in over five years. At this moment, I realize how much I missed him. He may have been a mute most of my life, but I know my real dad is in there somewhere. "Dad?" I run over to him, locking my arms around his neck—something I haven't done in years.

He pushes me back into the room and closes the door behind him. "Chloe, what are you doing with all of those letters?" He swallows hard, moving past me and pulling them out from under the bed. I guess I didn’t do a good job of concealing them. Now I’m even more thankful it wasn’t my mother coming in here.

As he places the last box back on the top shelf of my closet, Sammy's movement behind him catches his attention. He turns around slowly and his face contorts with confusion. He looks back at me, then again at Sammy. He points to him, and whiteness clouds his skin.

"Yes, Dad. He's mine," I say.

"But—I don't—How?" he fumbles over his thoughts and words.

"Dad, where the hell have you been?" I ignore his discomfort at the thought of me having a child. "The truth. I want it."

"Chloe." He places his hands in the air, surrendering to me. "It was your mother, not me. I had no say over what she was doing, and when I tried to interfere, she threatened me…with your life. She told me if I wanted you to live, I would need to disappear." A tear forms in the corner of his eye as he stutters through his words. "I thought I saw you walking out of the library, but you had a little boy, so I wasn’t sure. In any case, if there was a chance it was you, I had to come warn you. Your mother has intentions that I'm not sure you are aware of. You aren't safe here, honey. Neither is he." He points at Sammy.

"Where are you living?" I ask.

"In an apartment in Westborough. There's room for both of you to come stay with me. You need to get out of here before she comes home," he says, as he reaches for the doorknob. I can sense his eagerness to get out of here. I believe every word of what he’s said. I’d be wise to follow him and at least get Sammy out of this potential danger. Now that I know the locket isn’t in my closet, I’ll need to consider places where it might be. Some time to think might not be the worst idea.

"Dad, I need to find a locket that she has been hiding from me. Do you know anything about it?" I doubt he has any clue about this locket. But I might as well try my luck. I have nothing to lose at this point.

He cups his over his mouth. "You know about the locket?"

He knows about the locket? "Yeah, and I need it. Do you know where it is?" My voice carries a little louder than I intended it to. "After watching me be the victim of my mother's abuse for most of my life and doing nothing about it, the least you can do is tell me where it is."

His eyes roll up toward the ceiling. "I believe it's up there."

"In the attic?" I ask.

"Chloe, if your mother finds you up there, it won't end well…for any of us."

"We have an attic?” I lived in this house my whole childhood. I had never seen an opening, a door, or a pull down contraption from the ceiling. Nothing.

He nods his head hesitantly, probably wishing he didn’t tell me. I doubt he knows the true meaning behind the locket. Although, I guess I shouldn’t assume anything, since people seem to know things before I do.

"Chloe, be smart about this. Okay? Do you know where she is right now?" he asks.

"No," I respond. “I’m sure she’s out looking for me, though.”

"I would say now is not a good time, then. Sweetheart, I want to keep you safe. Come home with me and plan this out appropriately."

He sounds like Alex. It's killing me.

"He's right, Mommy," Sammy says.

I throw my head back and grab our coats off of the bed. "Let's go, Sam. We're going to go stay with Grandpa for a bit."

"Grandpa, huh?" my dad grins with a proud look on his face. "Hey Sammy, come here, buddy." My dad squats down and opens his arms. He actually looks like a real grandfather. I’m not sure I remember seeing this non-battered side of him. I wouldn’t remember. I’m sure if he was ever like this, it was before I was seven—a time I can’t recall.

Without a second to think, Sammy runs over and wraps his arms around my dad's neck. "I've heard a lot about you, Grandpa,” he says.

"Hopefully all good things, buddy." I’ve never said a word about my dad. What could I have said? Great dad. Never seemed to care. Never spoke to me. Never gave me hugs. Watched my mother destroy my life. Sammy is good at sucking up, even at his young age. He’s definitely an old soul with a little body.

"Mommy said you always kept her safe. You're like, her…superhero," Sammy smiles. I did say that. I remember now. He did stop my mother from hurting me a number of times. I just wish he had been around the times when she did hurt me.

My dad squeezes him tightly, and I'm doing everything I can to keep my emotions in check. I can't just forget about the neglect, but do I continue holding him accountable for it? I guess we'll see how this new living situation plays out first.

We pile into my dad’s beat-up old suburban and start rolling out of the driveway. Suddenly, I feel the brakes compress and the car jerk forward.

"Shit!" My dad shouts.

I turn and see my mother's large, expensive SUV blocking the end of the driveway, making it so we can't move. My dad looks at me and shakes his head with concern.

"Floor it, Dad. Over the lawn," I say, being the force that will push him to overcome her.

He looks back toward the garage and then down to the shifter and slams it into reverse. He pulls the steering wheel all the way to the left and presses his foot on the gas down to the floor.

Tire marks are left on the lawn and the car thumps as it rolls over the curb. The look on my mother’s face is priceless. Her mouth is hanging open and she's slowly pulling her unnecessarily large black sunglasses down onto the brim of her nose. And Dr. Greene, who’s in the passenger seat, looks like he’s about to be sick.

For the first time in my life, I see excitement in my dad's eyes as he grins and waves at her while driving by. He grips the steering wheel with both hands until his knuckles turn white. "God, that felt great." He lets out a loud rumbling belly laugh and sucks in a deep breath. "What a bitch."

"Wow Dad, I never thought you had it in you." I lean over and pat my hand on his shoulder.

"Excuse my language, Sammy," he apologizes, looking into the rear view mirror.

"It's okay, I wasn't paying attention. I was looking at Grandma jumping out of her car and screaming something.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN:

DAD’S HIDEAWAY

IT'S NOTHING like what I had imagined. The minute he mentioned having his own apartment, I pictured a run-down studio with stained carpeting and peeling paint. I never thought of my dad as the domestic type. That might be because my mother has always been a clean freak and the cook—or so she liked to call herself. My dad sort of just followed orders and tiptoed around the house.

If I had to guess, I would have assumed he didn't know how to use a broom or even a microwave. But that seems to be far from the case.

The apartment has two floors, or I guess one floor with an attached loft. Hardwoods, Pottery Barn style furniture and a lavish kitchen with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. Fresh fruit and vegetables lay in iron baskets placed nicely on the counters, and crystal wine glasses hang perfectly from a rack under one of the dark cherry wood cabinets. I'm shocked to see a place like this, maybe even more so to see that my dad has style. I never knew. This place looks pretty expensive, and for someone who has merely pulled off part-time hours as an administrative assistant, this should be unaffordable.

"How did you score this place?" I ask, still searching around, taking in every detail.

He looks down to his fiddling thumbs, as if he were ashamed to say.

"Dad?"

"Chloe, I've had money. Money hasn’t really been a problem over the past ten years. When your grandmother died ten years ago, she left me a significant amount of money. It was only in my name, so I hid it, figuring your mother had no intentions of keeping me around for long. I knew she wouldn’t have been able to get rid of me fast enough.

“However, I never gave her the chance to kick me out. I left on my own as soon as I found out about her affair with Dr. Greene. I had suspicions that she had been unfaithful in the past, but when the hospital called to notify me about your mother’s scam, I confronted her. She threatened me with your health, and forbade me from coming near you, or she would act upon her threats. I've never been one to underestimate your mother's control and powers. When it came to you, I tried to protect you, even if it seemed like it wasn’t helping.

“I somehow had a feeling you would eventually become stronger than your mother, and you would find your own way. I had hoped, anyway. It seems as though I was right about that at least," he says, shuffling his fingers through Sammy's hair. "Hey buddy, do you want a cookie?"

Sammy looks at me for consent and I give it to him. “Yes, please!” He lifts Sammy up, throws him up on his shoulders and brings him into the kitchen.

It's the first time I've heard Sammy giggle all day, and it's making my heart feel a little stronger.

My dad places Sammy down on one of the barstools and takes a seat next to me while pouring him a glass of milk.

"Dad, you look good. You look healthy, I mean." I smile seeing that he's happy—happier than he was with my mother, at least. "So, are you two officially divorced now, or what?" I ask.

"She won't sign the papers." He nods with a sigh.

"What? Why not? Isn't this what she wanted?" I ask.

"Chlover-Belle, I don't know what the hell that woman wants. She's crazy—that's all I know."

I can’t stop the tears from pooling up in my eyes, hearing my dad call me a nickname I haven't heard since I was seven or eight years old. "Dad, I've missed you so badly," I mutter between sobs.

The barstool screeches across the Italian kitchen tiles and between blinks I feel his arms wrap around me. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. It's all I can say. No one deserved the life you were forced to live through," he says.

I pull away. "Dad, I still don't understand why you let her have her way all of those times. Why didn't you call the police or do anything to help me? I don't understand. I hated you for so long. I put you on the same page as her. I felt abandoned by both of you." That needed to be said to him. I can't let him off the hook this easily. I get that he was afraid of her wrath, but I couldn't watch anyone do that to Sammy. That's something I'll never comprehend.

He places his hands on my shoulders and leans forward, putting his face right in front of mine. "There is absolutely no excuse for how little I tried. I was depressed, miserable, and barely cared about myself, let alone you. It was wrong—I was wrong. My behavior was inexcusable, and I would understand if you were not able to forgive me for the way your life turned out. And I won't ask for a second chance. But I will ask for us to try and make things right—even if that just means me being the best grandfather Sammy could ask for."

"Dad, I need to be able to trust you. Because right now, I don't feel like I can trust anyone." Not sure anyone could blame me for that.

His eyes are still staring at mine, wide and glossy. He isn't saying much, but I feel as if he has something to say. I close my eyes, trying to understand why it's taking so long for him to promise me trust. But the knock on the door distracts my mind from my question.

I run behind Sammy and pull him off of the barstool and under the counter. "Does she know where you live?" I whisper. I don’t know why I’m so afraid of this woman. Maybe it’s the confirmation from my dad’s mouth. Hearing how crazy she is. Knowing what’s she’s capable of. Understanding what lengths she will go to to get her way.

"Chloe, stand up. It's okay," my dad says calmly. "Come in." He takes a few steps toward the opening door.

I peek out over the granite countertop and scan my eyes up to her face. Young, slim, short black hair, and icy blue eyes—a woman, half his age, no more than ten years older than me, standing in his doorway, looking at him as if he were the most incredible man she's ever laid eyes on. I perk up and stand up straight, holding Sammy tightly in my grip.

"Is this—" the woman begins.

My dad interrupts her quickly and meets her at the door, ushering her inside. "Yes Ash, this is Chloe."

Her confidence carries her quickly across the living room, greeting me behind the breakfast bar. She shoots her hand up as a smile spreads across her high cheekbones. "Hi Chloe, it's a pleasure."

I shake her hand limply and study her expression, hoping to get a feel for who she is or what she's doing here. I'm assuming she's my dad’s…girlfriend. They aren't even divorced yet. My mind circulates with hundreds of questions as I notice that she's now behind me, squatting down, and asking Sammy to give her a ‘high-five.’

I point to the back of her and nod my head at my dad. He motions me to settle down. But, how can I? My dad is dating this beauty-queen who can't be more than thirty-five. I mean, she is an improvement from my psychopath mother, but thirty-five? That's rough.

"Who are you?" I ask, placing my arms around Sammy and lifting him up.

She looks back at my dad and walks over toward the living room couch.

"Chloe, why don't you come in here and have a seat," my dad says.

Why so you can tell me all about your new girlfriend and how I'm getting a new mommy? I laugh at the thought. I carry Sammy into the living room and sit on the leather chair across from the couch that the beauty-queen…Ash and my dad are sitting on.

The chair complains as we sink into the cushion, and I wish the noise would fill the silence longer.

"So, how long has this been going on?" I ask, looking back and forth between the two of them.

"Well, for starters, this isn't what you think. So, wipe the snide look off of your face," my father says, sounding disciplinary.

That's a relief, I guess. But if she isn't my dad's girlfriend, then who the hell is she?

"I'm all ears." I raise my eyebrows and cup my hands behind my ears. I know I’m being obnoxious, but I have no energy left for guessing games.

My dad clears his throat. He does that when he’s nervous, which was a lot when I was growing up. It’s like a tic. "Chloe, This is Officer Ash."

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her badge. "Cindy Ash. Nice to meet you, Chloe and Sammy."

"What's going on?" I ask again.

"Chloe, I'm here to help you—well, you and your dad. Sammy, as well." She slides her badge back into her pocket. "Your father has been seeking a way to have your mother detained due to her blackmailing high officials and now attempting to blackmail your father. He’s forced to support her or or she’ll act on a particular threat she’s had hanging over your father’s head since you were a child. She's a danger, as you are well aware. She’s not right in the head. However, she is intelligent and is careful not to leave a trace of her behavior behind. She's pretty much holding your father's wellbeing at stake right now, and I've been working with him for the past few weeks to help him get some resolution. Unfortunately, that means catching your mother in the act. As we've learned, this is anything but simple. So, we've been working closely on a plan," she explains.

How closely? I mutter to myself.

My father stands up and uncomfortably shifts his weight from foot to foot. "Chloe, look. If you help us out, she can help you find your missing necklace." He winks quickly so only I can see.

Suddenly, I'm not feeling so hostile toward this woman. If she can help me find the locket, I'll help her with whatever she needs.

"Okay, deal. Tell me what this threat is, and I’ll see what I can do to help."

"I can’t, Chloe.” His eyes widen, giving me a look that’s telling me to stop with the questions. I’m wondering if Officer Ash even knows what this threat is.

She interrupts my stare down with my dad and says, “Well the first thing is, we need you to find out your mother's schedule. Where she tends to be every day and when she isn't in the house. See if there is a pattern. That kind of stuff. Do you think you can pull that off?" she asks, looking worried about my response. I know I'm their only hope right now. And again, I wouldn't be doing this if it weren’t going to benefit me in some way, not after the neglect my father has shown me.

"Yeah. I think I can manage that." I pull Alex's leather jacket off of the bar stool and shove my arms through the sleeves. "Well, we better get going, Sammy." I lift him off the stool and pull him by the hand to the front door. "I'll need a ride."

"Chloe, just relax for a minute. Do you want to stay for dinner?" My dad asks, walking toward me with his arms stretched out toward us.

"Depends. Is she staying too?"

Officer Ash stands up and I can immediately tell I took this too far, and I was completely wrong about my accusations. Her face is red, her eyes are large, and she's waving her hands in front of her face. "Whoa, what do you think is going on here?" She flashes the back of her left hand up in the air, and I see a large rock sparkling under the light. "I'll be having dinner with my husband tonight, Chloe. I'm just here to help your father with this case," she says, with an annoyed look splashed across her face.

"Wow. I am—I'm really sorry, Officer Ash. I—"

"Chloe." She blows out some air and replaces her scowl with a smile. "No harm done. I know you're going through a rough time right now."

Does she? Does she know that I just lost my husband, the love of my life? I don't even know if my dad knows what my life has been like for the past few years. She must only know what my father has told her—that I'm a crazy nutcase who can't keep her feet planted on this earth.

"You know that my daddy died?" Sammy interrupts the awkwardness.

My dad walks over to Sammy and kneels in front of him. "What are you talking about, little buddy?"

"Don't you know that my daddy just died?" he asks.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN:

CAN’T COMPARE APPLES TO ORANGES

"CHLOE?" My dad waves his hand in front of my face, attempting to snap me out of my daze. "What is Sammy talking about?"

I don't know if I want to tell him. Will he even believe me? He has to. He has to believe me when I tell him where Sammy came from. I’m not sure how to explain it. I turn my hand over and look at the ring Alex placed on my finger. It’s still with me. It’s part of my heart too. I wiggle it around with my other hand and reveal the indent the ring leaves behind—the indent that represents the memories we made. I feel the pain creeping up from my stomach and twisting around my intestines. My throat tightens around my esophagus and I try to speak, but I can barely breathe. I don’t want to explain this, especially to someone who has never really cared to believe me? Will he care?

"Dad. I married Alex five years ago. Well, it will be five years next Wednesday, actually. We never did make plans for this anniversary, and now I know why." My mind begins to trail off in a different direction. What's the point of our anniversary if he isn't here to celebrate? We will forever have only been married for four years, yet we're soul mates. That doesn't make sense to me. My eyes refocus on my dad's concerned grimace. "Anyway, he had the same condition that I have. We understood each other, and that was all either of us needed. A year after we got married, we had Sammy. Alex was an amazing father to him. He taught him how to use his condition to the best of his ability, when to use it and when not to. He accepted him for being different and made sure he knew how special he was to be different." My words strike my dad like a knife. I can see the pain in his eyes. But it isn't pain from understanding my heartache. It's the pain from knowing that I was married to a man that was ten times better of a father in only four years, than he was to me my entire life.

He looks embarrassed in front of Cindy, even though she doesn't know the thoughts going through his head. She doesn't know how long he sat there and watched my mother mentally abuse me, keep me locked up like a criminal, and treat me as if I were a rabid animal. He tried to protect me from her physical wrath, but even then, he sometimes came up shorthanded. He was too scared of her, and he let her have her way with me more often than not. I wasn't worth that fight.

"Look, I can clearly see that you have some family issues you might want to work out before you begin doing this investigative work." Cindy walks toward the door, uncomfortable to be in on this conversation. "Paul, call me when she finds something." She opens the door and walks out quickly and without hesitation.

My dad places his hand on the door seconds after Cindy slams it and turns to give me a look of disappointment. "Were you trying to insinuate something, Chloe?"

"Nope. Just telling you about my life—the life you haven’t known." I shrug and walk back to the kitchen. "Look Dad, I don’t know what you expect from me right now. Let's not sit here and pretend you deserve an award for your parenting skills."

He nods his head with understanding and brushes past me into the kitchen. "Sammy, what's your favorite meal?" he asks, as he pokes his head into the refrigerator.

"You don't have to feed us. We'll be fine," I say.

"So, you'd rather eat your mother's slop? Is that what you're telling me?" he asks.

I can't help but smirk and realize that he's right. What am I thinking? "Good point. Okay, we'll stay for dinner."

He places three bowls of macaroni and cheese on the kitchen island, napkins with forks, pours three glasses of root beer, and tops off Sammy's with whipped cream and a straw.

Sammy keeps staring at me, trying to tell me something with his eyes, but I can't figure out what he's trying to say. He kicks me under the table, causing me to yelp. "What was that for?" I ask loudly. He places his hand over his forehead and nods at me, seemingly annoyed.

My dad is looking at him with an eyebrow raised, also trying to figure out what his problem is. "Chloe, why don't you start from the beginning? I want to know what has happened in your life for the past five years. Everything."

I drop my fork into my bowl, causing a clashing noise between the metal and glass, and I wrap my hand around the napkin below my palm, fisting it into a ball within my grip. "Well, let's see, where should I start?" I clear my throat. "No judgment and no are-you-crazy looks. Got it?"

"Yes, Chloe. I got it," he agrees. "Why don't you start from the part when you went missing from the hospital."

"Why do you and mother insist on calling that place a hospital? I think we're all quite aware that it's a mental institution—an asylum—one of those freaky ones from a horror movie."

He looks up at me, his eyes pulsing. "Anyway, let's hear it."

I can feel my legs becoming restless and jittery as I think of a good starting place for my story. I take a sip of my root beer and hold the glass up to my mouth longer than necessary, dragging out the silence. I can feel his eyes burning into my face, but the truth is—I don't know where to start. "The day I went missing," I curl two fingers in the air, showing air quotes around the word missing, "I was walking around the friendly white halls of the…asylum." I grin, knowing that the word is now irritating him. "When out of nowhere, Franco—you remember him, right? Or do you know him, as Tomas, James, or I don't know, Simon?" His face is quickly becoming flushed, knowing that this story might not be made up. "Well, he attacked me. Yes, that's right. He attacked me, beat me, detained me, drugged me and locked me in an abandoned cell down in the basement for almost two years." His hands begin to tremble and the noodles fling off of his fork as realization smacks him flat in the face. I stop for a minute to let him digest what I said.

His teeth grind from side to side and his eyes glaze over, staring over my head at the empty wall behind me. He drops his fork into his bowl. "Where does your—ah—husband, fall into play here? And where is Franco now?"

"Alex saved me." What else is there to really say?

"Did he save you, here in Massachusetts?" He asks carefully, probably scared if he asks the wrong question, I'll stop talking. Normally I would, but what do I have to lose now?

"He saved me both here…and in Paris, where we lived for a while." My eyes refuse to blink while staring my father in the face, waiting for his eyes to roll or a snide comment to fly out of his mouth.

"I see," he breathes.

And now we're in therapist mode.

"Here we go . . . ” I narrow my eyes at him, warning him not to start with the next set of questions that I'm sure will follow.

"I wish I could have met the man who made you happy and who obviously did a wonderful job being a dad to Sammy. Honestly, I do."

I can't tell if this is some kind of mind game, or if he's trying out sincerity. Either way, I'm done talking about this.

"We should probably get going," I say as I bring our three bowls to the sink.

"Do you want to stay here tonight and I'll take you over in the morning?" he asks.

"Whatever." I place the dishes in the dishwasher and grab the cleaner and wad of paper towels. It's not like my mother's house is going to be any better. It doesn't matter where we stay tonight. One thing is certain, I won't be sleeping, and I won't be happy.

"I'll go make up the beds," he says, looking as if I just battered him. It's no wonder my mother had her way with him. He crumbles the second someone isn't happy with him.

"Mommy, why are you being so mean to Grandpa?" Sammy asks, with a scowl spread across his lips. "He's trying to be nice to us." He shrugs.

"Long story, buddy," I say, combing my fingers through his hair. "Come on, it's time for bed."

I lift him up and walk down the hall, looking in each nearly empty room until I come to the third and last room. The room has two mattresses on the ground. My father is hovering over one of them, pulling the fitted sheet over the corner.

"Will this be okay for tonight?" he asks.

Yeah, I slept on a padded floor for a few years. This will probably be okay for a night. "Yes. Thank you. Do you have any shirts I can put on Sammy since I don't have any clothes for him?"

"Yes, of course. Do you need anything?"

"I'm good, thanks."

After throwing a top sheet over the second mattress and placing a folded blanket in the middle, he walks out of the bedroom. I hear a closet door creak open in another room and he returns quickly with a large shirt.

"Thank you," I say, keeping my eyes focused on the white shirt.

"You sure I can't get you anything?" he asks again.

I shake my head. Just Alex. That's all I want.

He moves in closer to me and places his hand around the back of my head, forcing my forehead into his lips. "Love you, Chlover-Belle…even if you hate me." He pulls away and looks me straight in the eyes. "Goodnight."

Receiving any sort of compassion or love right now is a reminder of the pain caused from the last time anyone cared about me. I turn to look at the mattresses and see Sammy already sprawled out on one, taking up the entire bed with his three and a half foot tall body. I place the red and blue-checkered fleece blanket over him, the smell of mothballs and cardboard wafting from the fabric into the air.

After I get him settled, it takes less than a minute for his little eyes to close and fall asleep.

Lucky.

I slide my arms out from the sleeves of Alex's leather jacket, roll it into a ball and throw it down onto the other mattress. I kick my boots off and take the elastic out of my hair, letting it fall loosely over my back. I kneel down on the floor next to the mattress, close my eyes and say a silent prayer to Alex, begging him to help the pain go away. I roll onto the mattress, realizing it's not a mattress but rather a box-spring with a foam egg crate on top. Fantastic. I curl my legs up to my chest and cling to Alex's jacket inbetween my arms and torso, inhaling what's left of his scent. I squeeze my eyes shut, pleading for sleep, hoping for less pain, and needing more air to breathe. My chest has felt like a rubber band that's being pulled to its capacity, and every hour it seems to stretch a little farther. I'm not sure how far it can go before it snaps, but it just seems to keep stretching.

I try to visualize Alex, the way he looked, the way he smelled, the feeling of his touch, anything that might bring him back to me, even if only in my dream. But I can't dream—I can't sleep, I can't even see enough darkness to allow my imagination to pull him in.

An hour after forcefully holding my eyes closed, staring through the slit between my eyelids, my eyes pop open when I realize that I left Alex's notebook on my bed in my mother's house. How could I have been so stupid? I pull myself off of the mattress, hopping up and down as I pull on each boot. I have to go get it. If she finds it, I'm done.

I look over at Sammy, debating if I should wake him or leave him here with my dad. I'll leave my dad a note in case he wakes up, but Sammy's safer here than at my mother's house. I grab the jacket from the box-spring and shove my arms through the overly long sleeves that I can't pull my hands all the way through. I turn to look at Sammy once more, still wondering if I'm making the right decision. But I know it's not a good idea to take him with me or wake him this late at night. I'll only be gone for an hour, tops. He'll never even know. I wrap my arms tightly around my body and blow a kiss toward him, whispering, “I love you.”

I'm careful to glide my feet across the floor in an attempt to avoid any wood creaking, but the scuffling of my shoes makes a louder noise than the floors complying with my weight. I tiptoe across the living room and over to the kitchen where I see a notepad and a pen. I jot down a few words, telling my dad I'll be back in an hour. I'll let him figure out that I borrowed his car after I've gotten back.

I make my way over to the front door and carefully guide his keys off of the nail protruding from the wall. I slide the chain lock inbetween both pieces of metal, and wrap my hand around the cold doorknob, slowly turning it to the right until I see the doorjam clear. I open the door just enough for my body to slide through and close it just as quietly.

I look at his keys, searching for one that looks like a front door key and I find two. I carefully attempt to place the first one seamlessly into the lock, but it stops at the first nub of the key. I move onto the second one and it slides right into place. I turn the key until I see the lock seal in the door.

I look to the left and then right, unsure of which way the elevator is. I can't remember how we came up. I see a window at the end of the hall on the right, so I'll take my chances with that direction. I get to the end of the hall without seeing an elevator, but I see an exit sign with a picture of stairs. I push the door open and wish I knew how many floors we came up when we got here.

I make my way down the first set of stairs, and I see a sign that says Level Nine. Great, only eight more flights to go. I spiral down the staircase, careful not to lose my footing. My eyes are heavy and exhaustion is beginning to catch up to me. I haven't slept, and I have no clue how I'm even awake right now.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:

BREAKING AND ENTERING

I STILL REMEMBER the first time Sammy showed me what he was capable of. “Watch me,” Sammy said with a giggle. His face went blank. His eyes were wide and not blinking. I waved my hand in front of his eyes. But he wasn’t in there. We were sitting in Charlie’s kitchen eating breakfast, and my two-year-old thought it was a good time to try out his drifting abilities. I felt my stomach sink. I couldn’t figure out how a two-year-old could understand what he was capable of. What if he couldn’t get back? Where was he going? I swallowed hard and my chest tightened. It’s been thirty seconds. My knee started bouncing up and down and I was drumming my fingers on the table. “Okay, Sammy. Time to come back,” I said to his zombie-like eyes.

After a long minute of torture, his eyes blinked a couple of times, and a smile grew across his freckly cheeks. “Daddy say hi,” he said with a giggle.

I remember falling off of my chair and onto my knees. I wrapped my arms around his tiny legs. “Sammy, you saw Daddy?” He nodded fervently and smiled. “Do you want to go back with Mommy and see Daddy again?” He bounced his head up and down with excitement flashing through his blue eyes.

We could all live together in a drift—a dream. That’s what it was. Our perfect family was a dream.

***

I press the silver push bar on the cold metal door and thankfully see the revolving door I remember coming in through. The lobby of his apartment smells like potpourri—it's kind of nauseating, but I suppose it matches the decor of green carpet with a repeating pattern of red roses and golden vines.

After walking through the revolving door, wishing it weren't so heavy, or that it would just move faster, I'm whacked in the face with November's bitter cold winds, which quickly pushes me into full alert. I look around the parking lot for my dad's green Volvo sedan, clicking the lock button, hoping for a beeping noise to follow. I see a set of lights flashing in the distance. I head toward the car, wrapping my arms tighter around my body to keep the warmth that's escaping from the gaping openings in Alex's extra large jacket.

I sweep my hand over the car door, searching for the handle in the darkness. My hand glides over the metal and I grip my fingers under the handle, pulling up until the door pops open. The car smells the same as it did earlier, like a musky cologne. My dad never wore cologne before, so it's weird. I drag the key across the side of the steering wheel until I find the hole for the ignition. I only have to turn the key slightly before I hear the soft engine start up. I adjust the mirrors, bring the seatbelt across my chest and flick the headlights on.

I just have to get to Route 9, and I'll be able to find my way to my mother’s. I should have been paying more attention when we were driving here, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway. Due to the roundabout way we had to get here to lose my mother who was following us, I lost track of where we were even going. Thankfully, after we passed a cop and went through a yellow light, we lost her.

Whatever the case is, I need focus. I would never be allowed to drive in this state—not with my records proving my condition. If I drifted while driving a car, it's safe to say I wouldn't make it out alive. Knowing that leaving Sammy isn't an option, I need to keep my eyes plastered on the road and my mind where it is. Although, I haven’t drifted since Alex died. It’s like there’s no pull—nothing better than what’s here in the real world.

After taking a few wrong turns, I see a bunch of streetlights up ahead. I can smell the hamburger grease fumes pouring out of Burger King's chimney, letting me know exactly where I am. I'm only about ten minutes from my mother's house. With my mind set back on the notebook, my heart pounds against my chest, and my apprehension grows. I have no idea how I'm going to break into the house, retrieve my notebook from my upstairs bedroom, and get back out to the car without her knowing I’m there. I don't even know if it's possible.

Approaching the driveway in a few yards, I shut off the headlights and pop the shifter into neutral. I can’t make any noise. I’ve seen this done in the movies. I laugh when it works.

I slip out of the car, leaving the door partially open. I’m kind of good at sneaking around, but she's similar to a dog who’s tail will start wagging from the slightest scent or noise.

I scan my eyes around the outside of the house, determining the best and safest entryway. My focus locks on the pine tree next to my window. What are the odds that my window is unlocked? I know I never locked it, but I'm sure she has. I guess it's my only hope right now.

As I glide my hands up and down the bark of the tree, the memories of falling off of the last tree I attempted to climb come back to haunt me. I shake my head, knowing I have to forget about that right now. I have to get Alex's notebook—it's the only thing that matters right this second.

I pull in a deep breath and wrap my hands around the branch hovering over my head. I place my feet against the tree and pull my body up to the first branch. I got up pretty easily, and I'm gaining some confidence back—regardless of the fact that I'm still only five feet off of the ground, with about fifteen feet to go. I pull myself up to the next branch the same way, and repeat this for the next five or so branches. I look down and see that I'm far from the ground. It looks as if I only have two or three more branches to climb.

As I make my way to the last branch, or the branch that is parallel to my bedroom window, I see the porch light flick on. I quickly move in toward the trunk of the tree, hoping to blend in with the bark. I see my mother appear in the doorway, wrapping her robe tightly around her body. Her hair is everywhere and her face is colorless without the massive amounts of makeup she was wearing earlier. She looks worried and nervous as she darts her head from side to side, looking for a source of the noise. My feet must have been dragging too loudly against the bark and I'm now holding my breath, hoping she can't hear my heart pounding against the inside of my chest. After a minute or so of her continuing to look around, I see her body begin to shiver from the cold and she turns around and walks back into the house, flicking the porch light off. I have to try my window now, before she gets back upstairs. I wrap my arms tightly around the tree branch that I'm squatting on, and pull myself to the edge, which stops just short of my window by a foot.

During bad thunderstorms and blizzards, this branch has always scraped against my window, scaring me into thinking there was someone outside trying to get in. I never imagined it actually being helpful, and I'm glad my dad never got around to cutting it down as I had begged him to for years.

I reach my arm over to my window and under the sill. I push up with the little momentum I have from trying to keep myself balanced at the same time. I feel the sweat forming on the back of my neck, which causes a chill from the thirty-five degrees of coldness blowing down the back of my jacket. I feel the window give, and relief sets in as I realize that she never did lock it. I move my body an inch closer toward the end of the branch in order to give me a little more leverage. I push the window halfway up, which is as far as I can reach from my position.

With one hand already gripped around the windowsill, I let go of the branch with my other hand and clutch it around the sill. I press off the branch with my feet, catapulting myself halfway into my window. The sill is pressing up against my ribs, causing pain, but not enough to make me stop. I wrap my hands around the headboard of my bed and pull my body the rest of the way in until I flop down on top of my bed, coming face to face with the notebook. I want to cry from relief. But I can’t. If I make any noise, I'll be caught.

I slide onto the ground beside the bed, notebook clutched within my grip and I wrap my other arm around my knees while trying to catch the breaths I missed while dangling off of the tree. I have to get back down with this book in my hands. Sounds impossible. I have to try, though.

After I take a couple minutes to regain my composure, I stick my head out of the window and come to realize the only way I'm making it back down safely is by throwing the notebook down to the ground first. I reluctantly release the notebook from my hand, allowing it to fall two stories into the grass. It looks like it’s still in one piece, which gives me confidence that I'll make it down in one piece too.

With my feet tucked under the railing of my headboard, I reach out of the window with both hands, grabbing for the branch that allowed me to come in. The branch is locked within my grip, and I pull my body out of my window. Without predicting my next move, my body falls from the window, leaving me hanging from the branch that my hands are still wrapped around.

I search for another branch below with my dangling feet. When my foot sweeps across one, I place my weight slowly down and shimmy in toward the base of the tree until I can wrap my arms around the trunk. Once I have some stability, I place both feet down on the branch below and begin to lower myself and then repeat eight more times until my last descent will be onto the grass and safety.

The second my feet reach the ground, I get down on my hands and knees to crawl toward the notebook that’s only a few feet away. With freedom in sight, I place my cold fingers around the warm leather of the notebook. I bring it into my chest, holding it for comfort and now warmth.

A sigh of relief calms me, and I have my eyes set on my dad’s car hidden around the corner. I stand up, ready to make a run for it. With one step forward, a blinding light beams directly into my eyes. I lift my chin and see my mother closing in on me with a flashlight.

"I knew you'd come running back," she says with a cunning grin.

"Yeah, Mother. That's definitely what this is—me running home." I back away a few steps, holding the notebook behind me. "Get that thing out of my face," I demand, holding the back of my hand up in front of my eyes to shield them from the overly intense light.

Her long bony fingers wrap around my arm and she forcefully pulls me toward the front door. Rather than fight with her, I figure now is as good of a time as any to interrogate her for some answers that might help Officer Ash, my dad, and mainly, myself. Although, I'm sure Officer Ash’s idea of finding out information about my mother's life didn't include interrogation, but it might be the only way to find anything out. Plus, who am I kidding, I certainly don't have the patience to play the sucking up card with her for the next week while I find out what grocery store she goes to every day, or who she's conning into sleeping with her.

I've been around Franco enough to play some of his mind games on her. I might even be good at it.

With her fingernails digging into the leather of Alex's jacket, I comply with her pull, to spare the jacket getting torn from her grip. "Take it easy, lunatic. I'm coming, and you don't have to drag me in like a bad dog. The neighbors might see, and how exactly would you explain this one?" I ask, spewing sarcasm.

Even in the foggy starlight, I can see the redness of her face brighten. It must be due to the lack of makeup she's wearing that I'm able to see her become angered so quickly. You'd think she'd be used to putting up with my wrath after all of the complaining she's done to the doctors over the years.

Once we're in the house, she flings me onto the couch and I reposition myself to get comfortable, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees and my fists resting underneath my chin. "What?" I ask, putting emphasis on the first half of the word.

"Where is your son?" she asks, with air quotes around the word son.

"You're a bitch." I narrow my eyes at her.

She sweeps the bangs out of her face and widens her eyes with hate seeping out from under her lids. "Do not speak to me like that. Who do you think you are, young lady?"

I attempt to stifle a laugh, but instead I bellow with the angered excitement that's erupting through my body. I can see I'm making her uneasy, and I like it. "Again, I'll ask you, what the hell do you want?"

Her bloodshot eyes continue to blaze into mine, searching for an answer within her own corrupted brain. "What is that you're hiding behind your back, Chloe?" she asks me the one question that could cause any sort of weakness within me right now.

"It's nothing," I say, keeping my words stern, hoping to use my unaffected demeanor to sway her from what I have.

She stands up, moving toward me as if I were her prey, stepping side to side and shifting her weight in an attempt to look behind my back. I scoot backwards on the couch, pressing the notebook firmly between the cushion and my back. But, it doesn't matter. She pounces, digging her fingernails into both of my arms while trying to pull me away from the couch. I will not let go of this notebook. It is all I have left of him, and it's mine.

She releases one hand from around my arm and reaches it around my back, clawing at the notebook and struggling to pull it from my tight clutch. She removes her hand from the notebook and presses it into the center of my back.

She pushes me with all of her weight. I’m at a disadvantage in my position and I lose my balance, falling face first onto the floor. I feel the cold hardwoods scrape against my cheek, but I still haven't let go of the notebook. However, I feel myself getting closer to losing a handle on it.

Her foot is in the center of my back, holding me down in place as she moves in for the final sweep, ripping the notebook out of my hands.

The second my fingernails scrape against the leather and dig into my empty lifeless palms, a frenzy bolts through every nerve in my body—anger I've never felt before—a need to crush the woman who gave me life. The notebook is all I have left of Alex. The second she has both of her hands gripped around the notebook, I flip over onto my stomach and kick my foot into her knee, her leg buckling and taking her crashing to the ground like a building that's being demolished. She clocks her head on the corner of the coffee table.

She’s unconscious.

At first I think I should help her, but then I realize, I have her right where I want her.

The notebook flew out of her hand when she fell, and my eyes are focused on that and that only. I pick myself off the ground, stand up and step over her body.

Such a bitch.

I focus my attention on the notebook, and wrap my arms around it tightly. “I have you, Alex.” I kiss the leather. “Don’t worry, you’re safe.”

***

She's staring through me with no expression on her face—just the usual coldness that pours out of her almond shaped eyes. "Tables have turned, huh?" I seethe, pulling my lips into a snide grin.

"The tables have not turned, Chloe," she says, cocking her head to the side to flip her bangs away from her eyes. “You just took advantage of my unconscious body and dragged me into the basement.” She laughs. “I wouldn’t go crazy and say ‘the tables have turned.’” She nods her head and rolls her eyes.

I take a couple of steps toward her, unafraid since I’d bound her hands behind a chair. "See, that's where you're wrong." I smirk and watch her swallow the lump in her throat. "You see, I have the power of making one phone call to one particular person. Then this will all be over. You wanted to interfere with Alex and me, and now you're going to play nice."

"Alex is dead, you foolish girl. I didn't interfere with anything," she says.

I pull the notebook from the back of my pants and hold it up to her face. "This is Alex." I press my finger into the hard leather, accenting my point. I replace the notebook back under the waistband of my pants. "And you got in the way of us."

Soft laughs escape from her throat, causing my fury to escalate. I pull my phone from my pocket and hold it up to her face. “I’m calling Dad.” I smile.

Her eyes widen and her mouth drops, appearing to search for her next words. “Wait,” she says.

I shrug. “What?”

“Don’t.” Her voice sounds pleading.

“Why not?” I continue playing her.

Her eyes are glossed over, and she’s staring through me. Her lips are moving rhythmically, saying something with no noise.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t move or even breathe. Is she—? Oh my God. She’s drifting. “Mother?” I shout with anger.

A smile appears on her lifeless face at the same time a pain sears up the side of my cheek. And then my nose. Now my right eye. The pain causes me to cringe and cry with pain. I wrap my hand around my nose and pull it away to find blood covering my fingers.

I turn around and spot a rag on a nearby table. I press it against my nose and clench my eyes from the increasing pain. I groan and grunt through the unbearable discomfort.

She’s laughing. Her eyes aren’t focused anymore, and she’s nodding her head. “You don’t want to play nice, Chloe. You see, I’ve been doing this a lot longer, and I’m fully capable of drifting to wherever you have been or are going, except you aren’t consciously there. And that means, I can do what I want,” she says.

“You’re an asshole?” I cry.

“I knew I should have beat you when I had the chance.” She pulls in an obnoxious sigh. “Good thing I can drift too.” She laughs again. “Maybe you should reconsider your plan of action, Chloe.” Her voice is filled with confidence, causing me to question what I should do. I have my notebook. I should just leave. I am going to leave.

“You’re right,” I say.

She looks confused at my change of direction. “See ya.”

“Chloe?”

I walk up the stairs and out the door, leaving her restrained and alone. Maybe she can drift her way out of that chair too. I hate that woman.

My muscles and nerves relax as I drive back to my dad’s apartment, but my mind is circling, debating my next move. As my thoughts clear, I jerk the car over onto the side of the dirt shoulder, causing a cloud of dust to form around the car. I grip my hands around the steering wheel and place my forehead against the horn. I squeeze my eyes closed and imagine Alex five years ago, on the beach, when we first met.

If I could just go back, time rewinds, and I can talk to him…

My face melts into the plastic finish that covers the horn. My fingers liquefy into the steering wheel, and they’re now clenched against my palm. I suck in the car scent through my nose, and force it to smell like salty ocean air instead. The coldness evaporates off of my skin with the beating hot sun.

I pray.

Please, Alex. Let this work. I need you . . .

I peek through my clenched eyelids, and I’m blinded with light. I place my hand over my face to shield the sun. I need those blue eyes. I need his blond curls. I need his touch, his voice. Pain is souring my stomach when I look around the barren sandy beach. “Alex,” I cry out.

A silhouette appears in the distance, and my heart pounds against my ribcage. My throat becomes dry, and my tears hesitate. “Alex?” I call out again.

Blond hair, blue eyes, and beautiful. The same man from the library walks toward me. It’s not Alex. But it looks like him. His crooked smile is the same as Alex’s. His dimples, those are the same too. But the freckles are in the wrong places, and his nose is pointier. I tilt my head to the side, confused.

Lost.

The man sits down beside me and funnels sand through his hands as if this encounter is normal and comfortable. I stare at him, unsure of what to say.

“You can’t do this,” he says.

“Can’t do what?” I ask.

He turns his head to look me square in the eyes. His eyes. So familiar. “This is not the right way to fix this.”

“Fix what?” I shake my head with confusion.

“You can’t bring him back this way,” he says. “Do what he said.” He smiles an Alex smile. “That’s all you have to do.”

He stands up and brushes the sand from his jeans and reaches his hand out to help me up. I place my hand in his, and it feels familiar.

“Go back and find it.” He looks down, but lifts his eyes. “Okay?”

I nod. It’s all I can do.

He turns around and begins to walk off. “Wait!” I shout.

He doesn’t turn back to face me. “Love you.”

“What?” I yell.

“Go home, Mom,” he says.

“Sammy?” I question.

He shoots his hand in the air, waving from behind. I fall to the sand, but the sand is unforgiving and has turned into leather. The sun has turned to a fuzzy black roof. The smell of the ocean air has turned back into the musky car smell. I swallow my hope and wrap my arms tightly around myself. It’s as if everything I try ends with me thrusting my head up against a cement wall.

I turn the key in the ignition and skid from the dirt shoulder back onto the pavement. The tires scream as they make a sharp turn into the parking spot I had pulled the car out from at the apartment building. I race up the stairwell and barge back into the apartment.

The second I close the door, the lights flicker on. Sammy is at the breakfast bar and my dad is standing over him with a glass of milk. Sammy looks upset and angry. And my dad looks the same as he checks his watch. He shakes his head with disappointment. I hate that look. I’ve seen it way too many times before. But I’m an adult now; it’s not quite necessary.

“He just lost his Dad, sweetie.” He takes a few steps toward me. “What were you thinking, disappearing in the middle of the night like that?” Crap. He’s right.

I pull the notebook out from behind my back and look at it briefly before placing it down on the table. “You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

I walk over to Sammy and place my arms around his neck. He sighs. “Don’t do that again,” he says, scolding me.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Don’t go looking for him again either.” He pulls himself away from my hold and turns to look at me, squinting his eyes a bit. “Do what he asked. Please.” He sounds older, less like a four-year-old.

I nod. It’s all I can do. I lift him up off of his chair and carry him back down the hall to the room where we were sleeping. I place him down on the bed and pull the sheets up to his neck. “You promise?” he asks.

“I promise,” I say. I lie down next to him, and pull him into my body. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”

This pain is relentless. It’s too much. I want to give up. But if he were here, he wouldn’t let me. And part of me feels like he is still here. But I know he’s not. The lump in my throat is growing again. The pain in my head is throbbing. My chest trembles with sobs, but my eyes are dry. I roll over and pull my knees into my chest. “Alex. Help me.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:

LOOPHOLES IN THE DARK

I OPEN the notebook up to a random page, looking for something to ease my pain and thoughts. I just need his words. I can hear them as I read them. This book is his soul. It’s him.

ALEX

The riverboat. Our riverboat. I’ll never forget today for as long as I live. Those eyes. They looked right at me. They were begging me to move in closer. I was scared if I did, I might ruin everything. But the look she was giving me, gave me hope that maybe I wouldn’t.

My heart was beating so hard I didn’t know if it could pump enough blood to get me through the next minute of my life. I had dreamt about it for years. I imagined what it would be like, what she would smell like, taste like, and feel like. I just never imagined it would be like it was.

Her eyes were locked on my lips, and I couldn’t take mine off of hers. I moved in slow, careful not to push her away. I needed to make sure it’s what she wanted too.

When our noses touched, her scent dragged me in. I couldn’t stop. I pulled in what little breath I had left, hoping to have enough to outlast the length of the kiss I wanted.

My lips pressed against hers and my stomach ached with pain, a sensational pain, one that I would endure minute after minute for the rest of my life if I could. My tongue swept across her bottom lip, and tiny explosions lit up my insides. She tasted like sweetened cocoa. I wanted to breathe her breath, to hear her thoughts, to feel her emotions. And I think I did. My body was acting on its own. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t breathe, but it didn’t matter. I needed more. I needed her. My hands tightened around her and for a moment I thought maybe I was hurting her. But she didn’t complain. Her hands felt just as tight around me.

I moved my hand up to her cotton soft cheek. The warmth from her skin heated my hand and then the rest of me as well. My head became light, and I pulled away for a breath. Those emerald eyes. They sparkled in the sun. It was like I could see forever within them.

My arms folded around her. She’s so tiny that I could almost wrap my arms around her twice. I pressed my face into her hair, and inhaled the beautiful scent from her shampoo. It made me weak. I wanted to fall over, but with her. I wanted her. I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life. My desire for her is the equivalent of my desire to breathe. She’s my air. She is my everything.

I stole a couple more seconds with her lips, her perfect rosebud lips. It had to hold me over until I can be with her again. I’ll need this memory to sustain me.

Three days might feel like forever.

I touch my fingers to my lips, recalling the sensation. Recalling the urge in my stomach. Recalling the speed of my beating heart that beat just for him. Now it’s beating merely to survive.

Since sleep doesn’t have a place in my life anymore, I lie here, searching my head for an answer. Blame and anger are my two crutches. They are my release, but they are also my captives. Franco should be feeling my burden and pain. But instead, he’s free within the comforts of four padded white walls—a permanent bed to relax, bareness to help his mind escape—an endless playroom for his unruly thoughts.

Bastard.

I should free him. I should. I should free him. Very bad ideas spark my dead mind. That’s it.

I’m going to free him.

My scattered thoughts are now organized into a beautiful web of organization. The spotlight of sun is peeking through the one broken panel of the window’s blinds. I smooth my hand over Sammy’s hair. His eyes peel open slowly, and a smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“I’ll stay with Grandpa today,” he says.

“How did—? Sammy, what do you know?” I ask, taken back by his perception.

He smiles. “Just go,” he says.

I nod, understanding my now-five-year-old son as if he were a grown man who had seen what the future holds. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the depth of his understanding.

“Happy Birthday, little man.” I give him a kiss on the cheek. “How about I spend the day with you and we do whatever you want?”

“No. For my birthday, I want you to find what Daddy told you to find.”

I’m stunned. What five-year-old would wish for something like that on his birthday? Most would ask for a toy or a bike. Not him.

“But, I want to be with you,” I tell him. “How about I take you to a toy store and we get you lots of presents?”

“I want my daddy back. And the necklace will make that happen.”

My words have been stolen. Alex will come back when I find the necklace? It doesn’t seem possible. Then again, nothing in my mind ever has. But this is real. This isn’t in my mind. Alex is dead. And people can’t come back from the dead.

“Sammy, Daddy—“

“Yes. He can. For me. Please, Mommy.”

I can’t argue with him on his birthday. I take Sammy by the hand and lead him out into the living room. My father is sitting at the breakfast bar, hunched over a cup of coffee. His hair is tousled, and the bags under his eyes point blame to me. He lifts his head and raises his eyebrows. “Morning,” he says.

“Dad,” I begin.

“It’s okay, Chlover-Belle,” he says, his voice forgiving.

“I am sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

He nods. “What’s on the agenda for today?” he asks.

“It’s my birthday, Grandpa!” Sammy announces with vigor.

“No way!” My dad responds with the same amount of excitement.

“For my birthday, I want you to take me to the movies, Grandpa. Just me and you.” He grins from ear to ear, and my dad gives me a questioning look.

I shrug. “That’s what he wants.” I pull Sammy in against me. “I’ll try to do a little research while you both are at the movie and I’ll meet back up with you after.”

“Please, Grandpa,” Sammy begs.

“Dad, I have an idea.” My idea is more likely to help me more than him, but I can keep that to myself.

“You do?” His eyes flash open. “Will you be safe?”

Most definitely not. But this is the only way. “Yes,” I lie. “But, I’ll need you to take Sammy to the movies while I work this out.”

He smiles at Sammy and pinches his chin. “Looks like we need to find a good movie, kiddo.” His attention switches back to me, question darkening his eyes. “What is your plan?”

“Can I ask you to trust me?” As the words come out, I realize I’m asking him to trust me after I ran off in the middle of the night.

He arches one eyebrow and clears his throat. “Sure.” The hesitation in his voice says no, but the look in his eyes say he’s desperate.

I turn to Sammy and kneel down to his level. I comb his straggly hair backward, out of his eyes. “I need you to be good for grandpa today.” I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss his cheek. “I want you to have a happy birthday all day.”

I pull Alex’s leather jacket from the back of the chair and slide my arms through the sleeves, flipping it over my shoulders. My father walks over to the coat hanger and digs his hand into his jacket pocket, searching for something. When he doesn’t find it, he looks over at me. “Keys?” He asks.

My face reddens when I pull his keys out of my coat pocket. I offer an uncomfortable grin. And he cocks his head to the side with yet another disapproving look. “Do you even have your license?”

I drop my eyes, knowing he already knows the answer. Who would give me license? I did in my drift.

“I’ll drive you,” he says.

He doesn’t know where I’m going. And he can’t know where I’m going. “It’s fine.” I hand his keys to him. “I’ll call a cab. I don’t want Sammy involved in any of this.”

He shoves his keys into his pocket and nods. “Okay.” He walks over to the kitchen counter and picks up his cell phone holding it to me.

I take it from his hands. “Thank you.”

***

“Belmont Street, please.”

The cab driver’s dark brown eyes study me in the rearview mirror. I do what I can to avoid eye contact with him. He’s creeping me out. The roads are slick and I’m sliding all over the corroded leather seats. The seatbelts are tucked into the cushions, and I have no desire to go digging for them under the coating of filth I’m sitting on. The scent of stale cigarettes is making me nauseous, and the driver is chomping on some kind of beef jerky. The stench is too much, so I crank the window a bit. It causes the dark eyed creep to look back at me, wondering why I’d be opening the window to let in the negative degree winds.

I count the stoplights that are left in this ride, and I’m trying to focus on not succumbing to my nausea, but it’s getting harder with each turn we take. One more stoplight.

“Where to?” he asks.

“Here is fine,” I say. He pulls over to the side of the road. I drop a twenty on the front seat as I climb out. “Thanks.”

He skids around in a circle and takes off in the opposite direction. I trudge up the snowy hill, wrapping Alex’s jacket tightly around me.

This street I’m on can go to one of two places. I turn left and continue up the sidewalk covered in compacted snow and ice.

The revolving doors are shuffling people in and out. My stomach sinks. I hate the smell of hospitals. I hate looking at hurt and sick people. It’s another reminder of how others looked at me—broken, sick, and helpless.

I zip the jacket all the way up to my chin, and I pull a ski hat from my pocket. I took it from my dad’s coat hanger, remembering what Charlie told me about concealing myself as best I could when coming here. I pull the black hat over my hair, and it pushes my bangs down over my eyes. The only thing that shows is my nose and the top of my chin. I look ridiculous, but hopefully no one will recognize me as a missing person.

I walk around the information desk, purposefully avoiding eye contact with any of the staff. I don’t know anyone here besides Charlie, but I’m not sure how connected the staff here is with the staff at the institution. I have to hope they aren’t affiliated. I walk toward the elevators, seeking a directory to find where I’m heading. The only other time I’ve been here was when I had Sammy, and I barely remember coming in or out of this place.

A shiny bronze directory glares me in the face. My eyes scan the list until they stop at the word chapel.

The tears start burning behind my eyes. My face fills with heat and my ears feel like they’re on fire. I pull in a deep breath and jam my thumb into the elevator button.

When the doors open, I’m faced with a nurse carrying a blood work caddy, a doctor who’s studying his clipboard, a man in a wheelchair, and a very pregnant woman with her husband. They all give me a once over as I enter into the elevator.

I keep my head down, avoiding eye contact with all of them. I hide myself in the far back corner and rest my hands on the conjoining metal railings. My floor number has already been pressed, and I can only hope I’m the only one getting off at the seventh floor.

The elevator takes forever to close. Each second feels like a minute. Most of them are uncomfortable, shifting their weight from foot to foot. The pregnant woman is having a contraction. She’s gritting her teeth together, the stress lines on her forehead become pronounced and sweat dribbles down her temple. Her husband looks scared but rubs her shoulders gently. I watch his mouth form into an “o” shape as he reminds her to breathe. Her hand is clenched around the railing and her eyes are scrunched tightly. I remember the pain. I feel her pain. At least she has her husband with her. At least she isn’t alone and scared of dying.

Their lives are beginning, and I’m going to pay my respects to the end of what was my life.

The elevator doors open and close three times, delivering everyone to their respective floors. I’m the last one left, waiting for the seventh floor to appear in front of me.

The doors open for the fourth time. This floor doesn’t look like the others. It’s dark, and there are stained glass windows lining the hall. I take a step out of the elevator doors, and I smell burning candles.

I look to the left and right, wondering what direction to go in, but one side is closed off by a set of double doors. The other direction leads down a dark hallway. I walk down into the darkness, until I come to a left turn. The corner turns into a large room with flat red carpet, exposed brick walls and more stained glass windows. Tiny votive candles surround the room, and there’s soft classical music swirling around my head.

I take one step into the room, noticing I’m alone here. There’s no one in this room, but Alex and I. I’m standing before an aisle that leads to a coffin.

Five years ago, I was standing before an aisle that led to the rest of my life: Alex. Our wedding—our beginning. Now I’m heading to his funeral. Our ending.

I walk toward him, my knees trying to buckle, trying to keep me from reaching the seven-foot long wooden box. I reach the end, and I place my hands over the smooth wooden surface. Pain wells in my stomach and my chest. I hold my breath to relieve some of my pain, but I immediately feel light-headed.

This is too much.

Part of me wants to open the casket to prove he’s in there and to see him one last time. But even if he is in there, it’s not him anymore. It’s merely his body. His soul is somewhere else, and I have no idea where.

I lean over and place my lips over the casket. “I love you, Alex. Wherever you are. I miss you so much, and I’m hurting like hell. I would do anything to see you, to feel you, to smell you. Anything.” My voice breaks, and the tears pool over my eyes. My breath hitches in my throat and I lose control.

I fall to my knees, praying for mercy on my mind, my damaged, broken, hell-raised mind. I’ve never prayed until recently, but now seems like a good time to start. I can’t take this pain anymore. How do people survive this? Are some people actually strong enough to get through this? Because I don’t see any light at the end of this obsidian tunnel.

After my tears run dry and my chest hurts from my heaving sobs, I pull myself up to my feet and walk back down the aisle, alone, cold, and miserable—completely opposite of how I felt on our wedding day.

I exit the hospital, unseen, and still missing.

Now on to my next stop.

I turn the corner around to the back of the building and pull open the large red metal door. The rubber soles of my shoes create a sloshing noise against the dry cement floor, and the sounds encourage other sounds to grow from the cell a few doors down.

“Who’s there?” Franco shouts. His voice is gravelly and hoarse.

I can’t forget my confidence. This will work. It has to. I open one of the rusted lockers adjacent to the wall and pull the metal shelf out, releasing the ring of keys I hid when we originally detained him here.

Familiar with the key that unlocks his cell, I pull it from the other twenty keys and slide it into the lock. I take one deep breath, twist, and push.

He looks horrible and smells even worse. I know Ashley, my old institution comrade, has kept him fed, but showering hasn’t been an option here. I’m guessing if his men wanted to release him, they would have tried harder to find a way to get him out. But I think he’s using this opportunity to hide.

“Hello, Franco,” I say, walking dangerously close to him, while pinching the bridge of my nose, trying to block out the deadly stench.

“What do you want?” he seethes.

“To help you.” I can’t believe these words are coming from my mouth. I almost believe them. But I don’t think he believes them. I need to be more convincing. I don’t even want to know what Alex would be thinking right now if he were here.

He stifles a laugh and coughs through the dryness of his throat. “You—you want to help me?”

“Alex is dead. You did not kill him. My mother has the locket, and I don’t want her to have it. I would rather you have it.” Do I look like I’m lying? I don’t even know what I look like when I’m lying.

“You really hate her that much?” His voice sounds sincere, like he’s buying this.

“She kept me locked up as a prisoner most of my life. Just like she did with you. I’ve already told you this. Maybe you didn’t believe me, but I can change your mind.” I look down and knot my fingers together, trying to look upset. “I hate her as much as you do.”

He nods, an approving nod. “I can see that.” He tries to push himself off of the ground, but he seems too stiff to move.

I walk over, closer than I’ve ever wanted to be to him. I lean over and offer my hand. He looks me in the eyes, and the look on his face relaxes. His eyes widen and they almost look endearing. “How did you get here?”

“Cab,” I say.

“I’ll call one of my men,” he says.

“A gray suit?” A lump forms in my throat, and sweat beads up on my neck.

“A what?” he says, arching his eyebrows.

I nod. “Never mind.”

“The men in gray suits and the birds of death only exist in your mind, love,” he says.

That’s a relief. I think.

“Here, in the real world, my men wear blue suits. Don’t let that fool you, though. I would be much more afraid of these men than the ones in your mind.” He laughs a little. “But don’t you worry your pretty little face. They won’t hurt you.”

Right. Okay. Sure, I believe you, dear Uncle Franco. His men were trying to kill me last week, but I’ll just go ahead and pretend that didn’t happen.

“Do you have a phone I could use?” he asks.

I reach into my coat pocket and pull out my dad’s phone. I hand it to him. He dials a number and holds the phone up to his ear. “Now,” he says. He clicks the phone off and hands it back to me.

CHAPTER NINETEEN:

THREE BLUE SUITS

I HEAR SHOES clicking loudly against the floor. I thought he said one of his men, not a few. I poke my head out of the door and see three men in blue suits walking toward me. They stop when they see me standing here.

One of them says, “It’s her.” He reaches his hand around to his back pocket. “We know your husband has been lying.”

“Leave her.” Franco says, in an authoritative voice.

“But they lied about the locket,” the shorter of the three men responds.

“I’m aware. I’ve been aware,” Franco says.

“You knew we lied?” I ask.

“I know more than you give me credit for. I knew you’d eventually come crawling back to me. And I knew you’d eventually give up this fight and join forces with me.” I turn to face him, and he smiles. A proud smile. “There’s a lot we can accomplish together, Chloe.”

He really thinks I’m here to help him. I’m wondering if I should be embarrassed or proud of my ability to trick a killer. “Looks like we’re going to be friends, boys,” I say to the three men. They all uncomfortably shift their weight around, adjusting their jackets and clearing their throats. I walk up to the first one and offer a handshake. “Chloe,” I say, introducing myself, even though they know who I am.

“John,” the first one says in a deep growly voice. His brown eyes study me, trying to see through my confidence. He’s the shortest one, stocky, but built. His black hair is buzzed and faded, blending into his dark skin. I can’t help but wonder what his story is. I can usually figure people out by looking into their eyes, but his eyes are empty. They’re cold and mean. I wonder what all of these men’s stories are. Who would want to work with Franco? I wonder what’s at the other end of the deal for them. You just have to be somewhat deranged to work for a murderer. Nevertheless, here I am, trying to win these professional assholes over.

I move back to the second man. He doesn’t look as tough as John. He has lighter eyes, greenish blue. They look brighter than they are because of the contrast to his jet-black hair. His nose is large, but it fits his face. I watch as he swallows hard, almost seeming nervous. I guess I have that affect on people. “Chloe,” I say again.

“Tony,” he says. His handshake is weak and clammy. Kind of gross.

I move to the third and last one, the largest of the three. His eyes are black and his dark brown hair is shaved into a military cut, high and tight. The speckles of facial hair glisten around his chiseled jawline, giving him a threatening facade.

I swallow my growing apprehension. I must remain solid. I can’t let them see my weakness. But if I saw this guy walking down the street, I’d cross to the other side just to avoid his menacing glare. He looks crazed, like a rabid animal looking for its next prey. His neck muscles bulge from his collar and the seam of his jacket looks tensed over his large muscles. I wouldn’t stand a chance against this guy. I think I need to do a better job of convincing him that I’m here for the right reasons. Even though my reasons are only right for me.

As reluctant as I am, I force my hand out to him. He doesn’t hesitate before gripping his hand tightly around mine, squeezing a little harder than I appreciate. “Jacko,” he says, not giving me a chance to introduce myself for a third time. He leans his head down toward mine. “You might have the other three convinced of your innocence, but I know what you are doing.” His husky words are whispered into my ear.

My chest tightens, and my pulse quickens. He’s just trying to scare me. I can’t let him get to me. That’s what he wants. He wants to break me. I will not be broken. Anymore than I already am, anyway. I pull my head away from his mouth and jerk my head backward. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” I say.

A deep gravely laugh escapes his throat and he grits his teeth together. He regains his straight posture and realigns his suit jacket over his perfectly creased pants. “Sir,” Jacko says. “Ready?”

Franco holds onto the wall for support as he pulls himself closer to where the three men are standing. When they notice his struggle, they rush to his side, helping him down to the exit. “Follow us, Chloe,” Franco says.

I turn back to the cell door and rip the keys from the lock. I’m not leaving these out. I hear the exit door creak open, and in the midst of the loud noise, I shove the keys back into the locker I had taken them from.

“Chloe!” Franco yells from the exit.

I run toward them. “Coming,” I shout.

We’re ushered into a black limousine, and I see that there’s a fourth blue suit who’s their designated driver. These men better stop multiplying.

I clamber into the car and slide along the back bench. The scent of leather and alcohol fills the surrounding stuffy air. Franco sits across from me on the opposite side, leaving a large gap between us. John sits on the right side, Tony sits on the left, and Jacko sits down right next to me. My discomfort reemerges as the material of his suit rubs against my arm. We’re seated on a large enough seat that sitting this close is unnecessary. But if I move, he’ll know it’s because I’m uncomfortable. And I don’t want him to know that. I cross my hands over my lap and tilt my chin up with confidence.

“Where will we be heading first?” I ask, my question directed at Franco.

A smile grows across his lips. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen my dear sister.” He scratches the scruff under his chin.

“Sir, wouldn’t you prefer to—“ John clears his throat. “Freshen up first?”

Franco tilts his head, seeming confused at his suggestion. He twists his face over to his shoulder, and his nostrils flare. He turns back to John and nods. “Yes, let’s swing by the house.” House? He actually occupies one of those here?

***

As the thought of his house swirls around my head we pull into a long winding driveway at the end of a thickly wooded street. The house is enormous. Tall privets cover the dark wood shingles, which conceal the old age of the colonial home. I bet ghosts reside here, probably ghosts of Franco’s victims. Maybe that’s why he wanted to live in the cell. Maybe it’s a place where the ghosts don’t haunt him.

There are only two windows on the front of the house, both small and tinted black. I’m not exactly surprised by the look of his house. Franco enjoys living in darkness.

I somewhat expect Franco to go in alone, but the blue suits follow his lead. “I’ll wait here,” I say.

Jacko grips his hand around my forearm. “Let’s go.”

Or not.

I pull my arm from his grip. “Take it easy,” I say. “I’ll come.”

He gestures for me to go first, and I climb out of the car with him following closely behind. I follow the others up to the tall black door. Franco wraps his hand around the doorknob and holds it there until the door chimes. “Fingerprint detected,” a computerized voice chimes from above the door. I hear bolts unclick and Franco pulls the door open, revealing a large dark wooded living room. Wooden panels cover the walls and flow right into the hardwood floors. It looks kind of cavernous and depressing. Again, shouldn’t be a surprise.

I step in, greeted by a rich scent of mahogany and burning wood. Framed pictures cover the walls. I can’t imagine what they could be images of, but I’m intrigued.

Franco hustles up the stairwell, pulling his jacket off on the way. Each of the blue suits takes a seat on one of the various hard wooden chairs that are scattered around the living room. There is no sofa, loveseat, or recliner. The room is very uncomfortable and cold. Again, not surprising.

I move toward the longest wall, the one containing the greatest number of framed pictures. The first picture is an old sepia coated image of what appears to be my mother, her parents, and James. They all stand erect, without a smile, without an emotion. Their pose looks forced.

The second picture is of James, or whoever he was at the time, holding a baby girl in a pink dress. He’s looking down at her with a slight smile. Next to them is a beautiful woman—long blond hair, large brown eyes, and a proud smile. That must be Melanie, Kiera’s mother, and Kiera of course. I feel a strike of pain run through my chest remembering when I’d first realized Franco had probably killed Kiera’s mother. She’d lived through misery too.

I move to the next picture, and a pit forms in my stomach. It’s Franco, my mother, and me. It’s in an old office, one that looks like a doctor’s office, kind of. I’m not posing in the picture like he and my mother are though. I’m sitting behind them on a metal chair. My eyes are stale, zombie-like, staring at the wall in front of me. My legs dangle from the chair, and my arms hang low by my side. I swallow the lump in my throat and try to hold down the sob that’s fighting its way up through my throat. This must be when they drugged me, or hypnotized me to forget about my childhood. Part of me wants to ask who would hang a picture of this. But the other part of me knows the answer.

“Shit, get down,” John says softly. Tony and Jacko move to opposite sides of the front window.

“What’s going on?” I ask, oblivious.

“Cops. Get. Down.” Jacko says with an intimidating scowl. “I’m sure you can imagine how many warrants are out for Franco’s arrest.”

How do they know he’s here? He’s only been out of hiding for twenty minutes.

I peek out of a side window and see that the limo is gone, meaning we’re all now trapped here in this house with no mode of transportation to leave.

“Clear,” Tony shouts. “The driver led them away.”

“I’ll call another one,” John says.

Well, this is fun. I look at the three men who look as though they go through this multiple times a day. They’re unfazed.

“This happen often?” I ask with a raised eyebrow. They all respond with silent laughter.

“Ever heard of Most Wanted?” Jacko asks with a smirk.

“Obviously.” I shrug. I know where this is going.

“Franco is number two on the list.” Of course he is. Why wouldn’t my uncle be number two on the most wanted list?

I have to try my hardest to look unimpressed by this news. “Hmm. Cool.” They all look a little surprised by my lack of response.

Franco descends the stairwell, clean-shaven, well dressed, and greased hair. He looks at me, seeing the picture I’ve been looking at. He smiles, looking proud of his work. “Water under the bridge?” he asks, shooting his arms out to his sides.

I want to hurt him. I want to do things I’ve never considered. I want to act like him, torture him, and make him wish he were dead. I try to keep my eyes from narrowing, from looking angered, from looking affected in anyway. I clasp my hands behind my back and squeeze tightly, trying to release some of my building aggression and pressure. I shrug and look away, unaffected. He releases a slight laugh as he continues down the remaining steps, clasping together the cuffs of his shirt.

John greets him at the bottom step with his coat. “Ready, sir?”

Franco nods and heads for the front door. Jacko stands and walks over to me. I hold my hands up to him. “I can walk myself,” I say, keeping my voice stern. He presses two fingers into the center of my back and pushes me forward. I shrug him off and continue after Franco.

“Sir, one with two drove by five minutes and thirty-two seconds past the hour. Cleared now. Jason K. is the new driver,” Tony updates him on what I’m assuming is the information on the police who drove by.

We settle into the limo and my nerves prickle over my arm with the thought of what’s to come. I can’t imagine how the next hour will play out.

Franco seems unaffected by our current situation as he shoves a sandwich into his mouth, swallowing it nearly whole. I can’t help but to curl my lip at him. He’s disgusting.

We pull into the driveway of my mother’s house. John, Tony, and Jacko depart from the car first, meeting around back near the trunk. Their muffled voices sound like their arranging a plan of some sort. I wish I could hear clearer, but Franco is keeping me hold in here. Once the three men reemerge in view of the car door, Franco urges me out and follows behind. “Do not speak. Do not act. Do not do a thing,” he says to me. He pulls on my arm and turns me around. “Do you understand?”

I nod my head with understanding. “I want the same thing you want.” I do. I want the exact same thing he wants.

“Very good, then.” He grins. “Shall we?” He lifts his palm toward the house.

I walk ahead of the others, approaching the front door. I twist the knob, checking to see if it’s unlocked. It is. I nod my head to Franco and the men to follow. I have a good suspicion as to why the door is unlocked. I glance into the living room, and I see that the pillow from the couch is still lying on the ground where I left it the night before.

“I believe she is in the basement, restrained,” I say, turning back to them.

“Making our job easy?” Franco asks with a cunning grin.

I turn back around, heading for the basement door. When the floorboard complains below me, I hear my mother shift around. “Chloe?” she shouts, her voice is strained and nervous.

I don’t respond. I open the door that leads to the basement and walk down the steps, slowly. When I reach the bottom step, she gives me an incredulous look. She has large dark bags under her eyes. Her skin is pale and her shoulders are hunched forward.

“You came back?” she asks, sounding hopeful.

I smile.

A shadow darkens the light behind me, and my mother’s eyes grow large.

“Sister.” Franco brushes by me. “It’s been too long.” His long strides close the gap between them quickly. Her chest heaves in and out and her chin trembles. Am I deranged if I enjoy seeing fear in her eyes? Have I become someone like her? She has no words. And it’s a first. “My dear sister, Marie.” He places his hand over her shoulder, and she shudders as if his hand were a lit flame. “Where is the locket?”

I can hear the struggle in her throat, as she swallows hard. “I do not know,” she says.

Franco clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Marie.” He looks down at her as if she were a child. “You know better than to lie to your big brother.” He squeezes his fingers around her shoulder blade. “Let’s not do this.”

Her head bobs left to right. I can see the terror in her eyes. And I love it. “I don’t know where it is.” Her eyes are still large, and by the look on her face, you’d think she was staring down the barrel of a gun.

Franco pulls his hand from her shoulder, swings it backward, and slaps her across the face. The noise sounds like a ruler hitting a chalkboard. The visual gives me an odd high. It’s as if I’m living vicariously through Franco’s lucky hand. The hand that was able to cause her the same kind of pain she’s caused me over the years. She recoils from the pain, twisting her face to the side and lets out a small cry.

“I—” she clears the gurgle out of her throat.

Franco winds his hand up again and releases the wrath across her face once more. This time blood sprays from her mouth. Her lip is dripping. It’s split open.

“Simon,” she cries through the pain.

Franco drops his hand down by his side. Jacko and Tony look at each other, mouthing the word Simon as if they were consulting each other for more knowledge on who he might be.

But I know who he is.

John separated from the speculation between Jacko and Tony, walks over to Franco and places his hand over his still shoulder. “Simon, sir?”

Franco looks up at John with a complacent look in his eyes. “I. Am. Simon.” His words sound weak compared to the meaning. “Simon.” He raises an eyebrow. “Is who I am.”

Jacko and Tony appear at John’s sides. “Elaborate,” Jacko says.

The lost look in Franco’s eyes is perturbing, but only to those who know what is going through his mind—my mother and I apparently being the only two.

Franco looks up at the three men, who suddenly don’t look as domineering anymore. “I am James, as well,” Franco says.

“James?” Tony asks.

A smile inches across Franco’s lips. “I am Tomas, too.” Franco throws his head back as a laugh erupts from the depths of his throat. He wraps his arms around his stomach and hunches over from his own hilarity.

His psychotic laugh throws the men for a loop. For the first time all day, I feel as though I might have an advantage in this situation—a leg up on these three unknowing men. They have no clue what they have gotten themselves involved in. For the life of me, I can’t figure out what could have convinced them to join forces with Franco.

CHAPTER TWENTY:

FOUR

“I TAKE IT you are all unaware of Franco’s multiple personality disorder?” I say, feeling a sinful smile creep over my cheeks.

Jacko walks over to me and seems to look at me more as an ally rather than an enemy now. He places his hand around my elbow and pulls me across the basement behind a beam. “What’s going on?” he whispers.

I stare at him for a moment, still angered by his behavior toward me all day. “Hmm,” I say.

“Look, Chloe, I’m sorry for being a little…rough with you earlier. Franco pays us good money to do as we’re told.”

“A person who will do anything for money—torment the innocent for a few dollars. You sound like a noble man, Jacko.” I can feel my eyes glinting at him. Why should I let him in on Franco’s hidden secrets? “Don’t you know money can’t buy you happiness, Jacko?” I speak as if I’m trying to teach him a life lesson, but by the look on his face, I can’t quite figure out if it’s happiness in which he seeks.

Jacko releases his hand from my elbow and his head drops. He drags in a long breath and looks back up at me. “My happiness is long gone. You don’t know a thing about me. All I care about is the money. That’s it.”

“Well good for you. I commend you on murdering for cash. That’s noble.” I roll my eyes.

He clears his throat and lets his eyes roll up to the ceiling. His jaw swivels back and forth and his tongue glides over the front of his teeth. “I was a member of a special ops team with John. After a three-year deployment, I had plans to end my military career, excited to live a normal life with my wife and two children. When I arrived back home, my wife was waiting for me with open arms and a smile.”

I smile a bit, imagining the reunion scene. “I’m glad you made it home all right. And I thank you for your service, but clearly, you still have some unresolved issues. You might want to seek help, rather than joining the no special forces with Franco. Probably not your brightest move.” I shove my hands into my pockets and lean my back up against a beam.

He ignores my comments and his eyes seem to be burning through my head. “Her open arms were frail and half the size they were when I left for Afghanistan. Her head was shaven clean. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were missing. Her face was gray, and her eyes had lost almost all of their blue pigment. Instead of a happy homecoming, I arrived to learn that my wife was battling a rare form of cancer.”

“She didn’t tell you before that?” I’m losing myself in this conversation, forgetting what’s lurking around the other side of this basement. I’m not sure why he thinks he owes me this explanation. But even though most of the other people in the basement have forgotten how to feel human, I still feel human. I still feel pain from losing my husband two days ago. I feel for Jacko and his wife.

“She didn’t want to tell me, in fear of me losing my train of thought while fighting over seas. Here she was at home, fighting her own battle, and she was left with no camaraderie except for our two small children who were depending on her for everything.”

A tear trickles from my eye. I didn’t mean to let it fall, but I feel every word that’s scraping against his throat. “I’m so sorry.” Sorry doesn’t make anything better. It’s just a word to fill the space of a loss of words.

“It was that moment that I saw her, that I made a promise to do whatever it took to help her. The treatments she needs are very expensive. I’d kill for her. I’d take a bullet for her, but the bullet is cancer in this case. So, the best I can do is buy her the best medical treatment possible. That is why I’m working for this psycho. Not because I enjoy hurting other people. I’ve already had my fair share of that.” My heart cracks down the middle. For whatever reason, Alex died for me. And Jacko is trying to save his wife, the same way Alex tried to save me. I understand more than he probably thinks I do.

“I understand,” I say.

“I need to know I’m not in danger right now. I can’t leave my wife alone, not now. Not knowing she probably doesn’t have much longer to live.” His Adam’s apple bobs around on his throat as his eyes study mine for some kind of reassuring response that I definitely can’t give him. “Everything was dormant with Franco up until today. I was going to quit in two weeks. I would have had enough money then. But today, you came along and suddenly the simple task of being Franco’s behind the scene entourage, turned into God knows what’s about to happen.”

Jacko wants to know if he is danger right now? I feel sorry for him not knowing who he has been working for and dealing with. “You’ve been working for a serial killer for however long, and now you are worried about your well-being?” I understand the money, but with killing people, there kind of comes danger. What was he expecting?

He doesn’t have a smartass remark to come back with. His eyes show fear, and the number of breaths he’s taking have quickened. “Yes,” he says, looking down to his feet.

His answer makes me feel sorry for him. Maybe it’s because I’m a parent too. Maybe it’s because I never thought about what I would do for money to support my family. But when I think of it like that, Alex killed himself to keep Sammy and me safe. Alex went that far to protect his family.

“He will kill whoever and whatever gets in his way,” I say to Jacko. His eyes flutter in response. “Since we’re being honest with each other, I think you should know that if Franco actually has his way with this locket, bad things will happen to him, you, and me. The locket belongs to me, and I’m the only one who will make good with it.” I can’t believe I’m telling him this. It doesn’t even make sense. To him, it’s a necklace. That’s it. “If Franco acquires the locket into his possession, you will die. It’s referred to as, ‘The Necklace of Death’ for a reason, I’m sure.”

“’The Necklace of Death’?” he asks.

“Look it up if you don’t believe me,” I say. But I think that’s all I needed to say. I can see he believes me. “Help me get the locket. It will keep you and your family safe.” I’m scaring myself with how well I’ve taken control over this situation. I feel as though I’m making progress with the unattainable.

He nods his head with understanding and agreement. “Follow my lead,” he says.

He grips his hand back around my arms and pulls me back out to where everyone else is standing. “Chloe won’t be speaking about you like that again. He flings me around a bit. “Will she?” His eyes glower into mine as he pushes me across the room.

I don’t fall, but I bounce off of the wooden railing. I give a phony angered look toward Jacko, and look down at the floor.

“Sir, how should we handle this?” Jacko says to Franco.

“The attic,” he says, without thinking for long.

“The attic, sir?” John asks.

“Let’s go,” Franco says.

“Don’t go up there,” my mother cries. “You know what will happen.”

“I know.” Franco smiles, then winks. “Let’s go.” He waves on the guys and me.

I look over at my mother to gauge her reaction. She looks sick and horrified, as if Franco is about to release some demon. And he might.

Her screams follow me, Franco, and the three men up the stairs and into the kitchen. Franco seems familiar with the house, more so than I am. I follow him up the stairs and into my parents’ bedroom. This isn’t an attic though.

“I don’t think you’re going to find what you’re looking for in their room, Franco,” I say.

“It’s not in here, love.” He lets out a condescending chuckle. He continues into the small master bathroom and removes the light fixture from the ceiling. He places the light down carefully onto the sink base and looks back up to where the fixture was hanging. He removes a metal cylinder and places that down on the sink as well. A string falls from the ceiling and dangles over his head. He yanks on it, and the ceiling pulls apart, creating an opening large enough to fit through. I always thought my parents had been too lazy to replace the light bulb, and now I realize it was because there had never been any wires, it was just a false light to hide the attic entrance.

He reaches into the hole and pulls down a wooden ladder. I lived here for nineteen years, and I never knew there was an attic in this house. A flash of hope surges through me. If the locket is here in this house, it will most certainly be up there.

“Follow me,” Franco says. He steadies the ladder and climbs up into the black hole. I see a faint glow flicker from within the darkness. I look at Jacko and he motions me to go up first.

There is no fear left within me. I’m determined. I climb up the old ladder and pull myself up and onto the wood paneling. Dust mists through the air and I wave it away for clarity. It looks like any old attic: boxes lined against the walls, old furniture parts, and clown puppets. Yup, those belong in an attic. I don’t even want to know. What I do know is that there are a lot of boxes to look through.

Franco walks toward the attic window like a zombie moving toward flesh. He takes a sharp left turn and disappears behind the boxes. Jacko, John, and Tony stand behind me, watching Franco’s odd behavior, as well. I look back at them and Jacko shrugs his shoulders before brushing by me.

“What the hell, man?” Jacko recoils. He’s standing next to the boxes Franco disappeared behind, and I can’t imagine what the issue is now. “Guys, you might want to take a look at this.” Jacko’s skin flushes slightly as he examines whatever it is he’s looking at.

I rush ahead of the other two and meet Jacko at his side. Sadly, I already know exactly what I’m looking at. I’ve put all the pieces together very quickly.

Franco has stripped down to his underwear and socks. His legs are folded into his chest and his arms are wrapped tightly around his knees. He rocks back and forth. Back and forth. His eyes are stale and his mouth is gaping open.

“This isn’t Franco,” I say.

Jacko pulls me backward toward the opposite wall. “Who the hell is it then?”

I shrug. “Simon.” It’s so obvious to me. I feel like I’ve come full circle now. I’ve met all four of the creatures that live within my uncle’s mind.

“Simon?” he asks.

“The mute personality.”

“But how? Why? What the hell just made him turn into Simon?”

“I don’t know. I’m assuming the attic. I know he was locked up here most of his life. It probably has some kind of effect on him.” I walk back over to Simon and kick him in the shin. No reaction. “I’m not sure what he thought would happen when he came up here. Unless, he’s unaware of what happens when he does come up here.”

“Chloe, you aren’t making much sense,” Jacko says.

“Not to you. But I understand very well what is happening. I also understand that I have free rein to look through all of these boxes to find what I’m looking for.” I turn around to face the three of them. “So. Are you going to help me, or him?” I raise my eyebrows.

John steps forward. “Are you paying us now?”

“No.”

“Then, hell no. We’re not helping you. We’re out of here. Let’s go, guys,” John says.

Jacko looks at me for a long second before moving his eyes to the others. “I think we should help her first.”

“Dude. Come on. This is bull,” Tony says in his thick Italian accent. “Franco isn’t going to be in this state permanently. What do you think he’s going to do when he finds out you left him here like this?” He shoves a box across the floor with the toe of his black shoe.

“Regardless of what we do right now, you don’t think he’ll spare your life, do you?” Jacko says to Tony and laughs. “Help her, and then we’ll get him out of here.”

“What exactly are we helping you with,” John asks me.

“Help me find the locket,” I say. I don’t think any further explanation is necessary right now. I should definitely keep things on as-need-to-know basis.

“So, let me get this straight,” Tony says with a sarcastic laugh. “We’re going to help you find the locket and then save Franco from his demented mind, so he comes back to realize that we just helped you steal the item he’s been after?”

“Exactly,” I say. Yes. I’m precisely asking you to give up your life for mine. I’m acting like Franco now.

“What the hell is in this for us?” Tony asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Your life,” I say, stating it as if it’s a simple fact of life and death. Which in my particular case, it probably is, except Alex is making it look like it’s the death part I’m chasing.

Tony and John look at Jacko. “Dude. What is she talking about? Is this chick nuts, or what?” They’re pissing me off, but I know Jacko understands the importance of helping me. I’m going to let this play out.

“We’re helping her. That’s it. Start pulling boxes down and look for the locket,” Jacko says. They seem to obey him. Maybe Jacko is the leader of this blue suit pack. I should only be so lucky that they listen so easily.

I brush past them and approach the first stack of boxes. I pull the first one down and rip it open: pictures, letters, playing cards, and drawings. Nothing in here. I pull the second box down and rip it open. Clothes.

Frustration boils my blood. There are at least a hundred or more boxes here. This is going to take forever, and I hope Simon is a semi-permanent fixture for the time being. The guys appear to be busting through the boxes quicker than I am. I grab the next column of boxes and rip each one open. More clothes, more letters, and more pictures. There has to be something here, somewhere.

Under the window near Simon, there’s a small cardboard box. The sight of it gives me hope or maybe just a feeling. I move over to it, and I glance at Simon before opening it. He’s staring at me, smiling. So freaking creepy. “Franco?” I whisper, wondering if he’s changed back and he’s about to attack me. No response. He begins rocking back and forth from his bottom to his feet. Smiling. Just smiling. The hairs on my arms stand at attention. My subconscious is screaming at me to get the hell out of here. However, I’m starting to wonder if my subconscious even exists anymore.

My hands tremble as I pull the flaps of the box open. A wooden jewelry box is the only item that sits within the cardboard panels. Another surge of hope burns through my insides. I lift it out of the box and fall back on my butt. I run my fingers over the smooth wooden finish and place my finger between the slits. I push it open, and the box whines as it creeks apart. My heart stops beating, and my breath catches in my throat. Coldness covers my skin, and my fingertips tingle with an electric force.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE:

THE LOCKET

I REACH IN and tangle the chain around my fingers. The gold is warm and melts into my skin. Beneath the necklace is a switchblade. I’m not sure why these two items would be placed together in a box, but that answer is not of concern to me now that I found what I’ve been seeking.

I push myself up on my knees and twist my body away from Simon. His frozen grin is making me uncomfortable. I wonder if Franco is there somewhere in his head. I wonder if his eyes are sending a message to the part of his brain that isn’t working properly right now. I wonder if he knows what I’m doing—watching it happen. His own head is the padded cell surrounding his brain. And I hope he can comprehend what I’m doing. It would be the perfect payback for the torture he’s put me through in the past five years of my life.

I pull in another breath, trying to push the thought of Franco’s anger to the back of my head. I peel the two hearts away from each other, and I see the same familiar picture again: an elderly couple standing in front of the rock in the Catacombs. The elderly couple looks familiar to me still. The man has blue eyes. Wait. I know those blue eyes. The woman has green eyes. My green eyes.

Comprehension overwhelms me. I place my finger over the picture and I feel its uneven curve. It feels as though something is beneath the photo.

I press my thumb against the picture and slide it to the right. Something falls into my lap. When my fingers glide over it, I know what it is. A pill. Another fucking pill.

But for what?

I place it in my jacket pocket. I lift the picture from the edge of the necklace and flip it over. August 22, 2064 is written along the edge. Under it, it says: To second chances.

My pulse rings loudly in my ears. To second chances? For me? For Alex? What about Sammy?

The notebook. It has to say in there.

But Alex said he didn’t know what was inside the locket.

I need to think.

I need more time.

I need to get the hell out of here.

I slide the picture back into the locket and place it in my pocket. “Guys, I don’t think it’s here.” They’ve gone through nearly all of the boxes on the other side of the attic and I can see they agree. Tony and John, anyway. Jacko has his eyes set on me. He knows.

“Yeah, sorry, hon. I don’t know what to tell you,” Tony says. He sounds friendlier all of the sudden. Maybe it’s because he thinks I’m letting him off the hook. He can think that. Turns out, I didn’t need them after all.

It’s ironic that Franco led himself to his own demise. And I have to believe that finding the locket will save my life. Is that what this was all about? A fight for my life or Franco’s. This is his fault.

I shrug. “You win some, you lose some.” I try to hide my grin. “What are we going to do about him?” I point to Simon.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I could use a little time off,” John says. “I think he’ll be okay up here for a bit.”

I don’t know the triggers that would cause Simon to turn back to Franco, Tomas, or James. I don’t know if this attic holds him in a sedative state. There’s no logic behind it. But I’m not going to question it. I have the locket. I have the opportunity to escape. I have the supposed key to Alex.

Jacko shrugs and Tony doesn’t hesitate before walking back to the attic opening. I look at Simon once more. He’s now leaning up against the wall. His eyes are set on the ceiling. My feelings on his current state are unresolved. But they quickly resolve. The screwed up pieces in my mind slide together in perfect form.

I lean over to the wooden box and retrieve the switchblade. Franco/Simon’s eyes are still set on the ceiling, playing whatever game his mind is telling him to play. He slouches back down to the ground and his head falls between his knees. What the hell? He must be teetering between personalities.

I take small careful steps over to him, my eyes blazing with my intent. My heart is thumping so hard I can barely breathe.

This is the answer.

This has always been the answer. I have to kill the demon in my head.

It’s him or me.

It’s going to be me.

As my shadow hovers over Franco, I crouch down into a squat. My veins are pulsating with adrenaline. With anger and rage. This asshole has ruined my life. I move the switchblade to his neck. I push the tip of it into his flesh and I feel a pop when the blade slips in. His skin cuts like poultry and it’s satisfying.

“I. Win.”

I watch his Adam’s apple move down into the crook of his neck. His skin tightens around his face. He’s in there. He knows what’s happening right now. This makes me happy. A crazy kind of happy. My hand isn’t trembling anymore. My hand is strong and knows its capability. It’s him or me.

I grit my teeth together and press the knife further into his neck. I create a straight line from one side to the other, watching the blood seep from the perfect slice. I laugh a little. “Bye-bye, Uncle James. Now you’ve gotten your wish. You will no longer ruin anyone’s life.” I fall backward and drop the knife. I sit watching the pink color of his skin morph into white, and his lips freeze over with a blue hue.

I stare him in his dead eyes. That’s for Kiera’s mother. That’s for taking some of my precious time away from Alex. That’s for destroying the person my mother used to be. You have single handedly ruined so many people’s lives. But, dear uncle, you will not ruin mine.

“Chloe?” Jacko’s voice hollers from below the attic. I can’t pull my eyes away from what I’ve done. I’ve committed a murder, and it feels so damn good.

The sounds of footsteps grow behind me, snapping me out of my daze. A hand over my shoulder squeezes tightly. I look up into Jacko’s face. His veins bulge around his neck and on the sides of his forehead. He pulls me up by my elbow and spins me around to face him.

“You killed him?”

“I saved us.”

He nods as if he understands my reasoning. As if what I did was actually okay. Would I go to jail if I got caught? Or would they find a long time missing serial killer who was responsible for the death of so many. Technically, he’s trespassing in my own house. The law is on my side. Self-defense on my own property.

I win.

I just got away with murder.

***

I run down the stairs and to the front door, flinging it open into the cold. Jacko grabs my arm. And for a moment, I think he might change his mind about siding with me, understanding me, but when I turn to look at him, he smiles and pulls me in for a hug. “Go. Get out of here.” He kisses the top of my head. ”Thank you, Chloe.”

“Thank you,” I choke out. I take a few steps forward before I stop and turn around. “Hey Jacko?”

“What’s up?”

“I hope you save your wife. I’ll keep her in my thoughts.”

He doesn’t say anything. His cheeks fill with pink. He nods and inhales sharply.

I run down the familiar streets of my childhood neighborhood. I run past the elementary school, the one Alex and I attended together at some point. I run by the memorial rock, the one for Alex. The one that is now a true memorial of his life, and not just his mind.

Tears pour from my eyes. I need him so badly. I need to feel him. I need his arms around me. I need him to make this pain stop. My tears burn my face, like water on oil. The pain in my heart thickens. It slows me down like a tarred surface. But then I remember: second chances. I reach into my coat pocket and pull the green pill out. It’s tempting, even without knowing the effect. The adrenaline rush from needing to know more courses through me, and I pick up speed until I make it to the highway. I flag down a cab and direct him to my dad’s apartment.

I fling the door open and find Sammy and my dad playing checkers on the floor. I run over to him and drop to my knees, pulling him into me. I kiss his head and inhale the scent of his hair. “How was the movie, little man?”

“It was so cool, Mom! I had popcorn and lemonade and I got to sit on Grandpa’s lap the whole time. This has been the best birthday ever.” He gleams for a moment, but then his smile fades. “Is everything okay, Mommy?”

I smile, knowing that if I do what Alex wants me to do, Sammy will be safe here with my dad for however long that time is intended to be. “Everything is going to be okay, yes. Keep playing with Grandpa for a few minutes. I have to do a couple more things, and then you and I can go do something for your birthday. Okay?”

I see my dad staring at my hand that’s around Sammy. It’s covered in blood. I hadn’t noticed it before. My father looks sick with wonder. If he knew I just killed James, would he be happy, scared or upset? He doesn’t need to know.

“I don’t want to go without Grandpa, Mommy. He has to come with us,” Sammy says. His eyes are pleading with me to agree. “I should stay here with him for a while.” What does he mean by that? He said I and not we.

“Mommy, do I get to stay with Grandpa?” He jumps up and down with excitement. My dad looks dumfounded and confused. I don’t have time to explain. I need the notebook. “We’ll see, Sam. I’ll be back in a few minutes. I’m just going into the other room. We’ll talk about it when I come back in.”

“Chloe, wait,” my dad says. “Did you find out that information on your mother?”

“She’s locked in her basement right now. I have a feeling you can get whatever you need from her, including her signature. Send Officer Ash over there.” I smile.

“Really?” He releases a loud laugh. “Oh my God. I’m free from that witch.” He continues laughing. He’s hysterical, in a crazy way. But I can understand his feelings. “Thank you, Chloe. Thank you. Thank you. I don’t know what else to say.”

“No need. Really.” I stand up and walk toward the room I slept in last night.

I sit down on the mattress and pull the notebook out from under the pillow. I flip to the back of the book, thinking there has to be something here.

The last few pages are blank. I keep flipping until I come to a page that has a tightly folded note shimmied into the crease of the pages.

I open it, and read:

Chloe,

Tomorrow is the end for me. But, my ending is the beginning of our story. You’ll understand soon.

Life is not worth living if it cannot be real, and even though our dreams have always been real, you deserve more.

The locket will give you a second chance. It will give us all a second chance.

The truth is, the real life you think you are living is nothing more than a dream. The contents in the locket will change that. You will wake up with warmth, kindness, and love.

I know this. Because I’m here, waiting for you.

I did not die, Chloe.

I simply woke up.

Love Always,

Alex

I close the book. I’ve read enough. He didn’t die? Yet, he’s gone. He left me with an explanation scribbled on a piece of paper. I am supposed to take this pill, and say good-bye to what I understand as real. But I won’t. Sammy needs me. He needs me more than I need Alex. It’s a feeling I wouldn’t have understood four years ago. If I left him, he would feel more hurt than I could ever comprehend. That’s not something I could do to him, not after he lost his dad. Dead or in another reality, he’s gone and not a part of Sammy’s life. I won’t do that to him too. I place the notebook back under my pillow and walk back out where Sammy and my dad are still playing checkers.

“Sammy, do you want to go get dinner somewhere? I’ll take you wherever you want to go.” I smile.

“May I come?” My dad asks.

“Can he? Can he?” Sammy shrieks with excitement.

“What about Mother?” I ask my dad.

“Cindy is dealing with her. I don’t want to see her. I want the divorce papers, and that’s what I’m paying Cindy to take care of for me.” He stands up and picks up the checkers board. “I would much rather join my two favorite people for dinner tonight.” How do I tell him that kind words and a few smiles don’t fix a lifetime full of neglect? “Please, give me a chance to prove who I am without her. Please, Chloe.” I can’t bear to hear him beg for my pity. Sammy and I are alone now. Forgiveness might behoove me.

“Sure. Join us.” I force a painful smile. He moves in and wraps his arms around me tightly. His chest heaves with sobs. “I’m so sorry, Chlover-Belle.” He inhales tensely. “I was horrible to you. I don’t deserve you, but I will try so hard to make it up to you.”

“Okay Dad. Okay,” I whisper. I wrap my arms around him and I look over his shoulder at Sammy, who’s clapping, showcasing a large smile. He gives me the thumbs up. It makes me think I’m doing something right. My wise son always tells me when I’m right or wrong. “Where should we go, Sammy?”

“Actually, I have an idea,” my dad says. “Sammy, how about a surprise?”

“Okay!” Sammy shouts, followed by laughter.

My dad grabs his keys and jacket and helps get Sammy’s jacket on too. I place Alex’s leather jacket back over my shoulders and feel for the pill that should still be in the pocket.

Still there. Where it will stay.

***

“This is the coolest place I’ve ever seen!” Sammy runs through the entrance of the restaurant, growling at the large animals on display.

“I always wanted to take you here, kiddo. But your mother wouldn’t allow such fun,” my father says.

I nod. “Yup.” The Rainforest Café, something else I missed out on. I don’t even care anymore. I could live through the look on Sammy’s face, happily.

“Grandpa, will you take me to the bathroom?” Sammy asks. It’s clear he’s taken quite a liking to my dad. I would have too if he acted like this while I was growing up.

“Is it okay, Chloe?” My dad asks.

“Sure. I’ll go put our name in.”

I put our name on the waiting list and take a seat under the hippo’s mouth. Every time I’m alone, I want to cry. I already feel the hot tears forming behind my eyes. I wish I could just be strong and stop feeling everything. I have to live through this for Sammy. I have to survive for him.

Someone’s leg brushes up against mine, and I look over to see who would be sitting so close. Twenty something, blond hair, blue eyes, and freckles in the wrong places. “Shouldn’t you be in the bathroom with Grandpa,” I ask. “You should stop drifting. It’s bad for you, and it doesn’t do any good. Clearly. Look at me.”

He places his hand on my shoulder. “Mom.” His voice is so deep. It’s hard to recognize my little boy anywhere inside of this grown man. “Whatever decision you make will not affect me. You have to know this. I’ve lived through what you’re about to live through. I know what decision you make.”

“Sam, the decision I’ve made is to stay here with you. I will never leave you. I’m not going to go die and leave you alone.”

“Mom. You have to live before you can die.” He laughs. “If you want to be with Dad, and I know you do, do what you have to. You will see me again. I promise.” He wraps his arm around my neck and kisses me on the cheek. “Grandpa is a cool guy. Let me stay with him while you take care of things.” He stands up and hovers over me. He has to be at least six feet tall. “Whatever Dad said in that book of his was well thought out. It’s okay to listen to him. He has my best interest at heart too.” He smiles. “Now, go order me a burger with fries. Grandpa is waiting for me outside of the bathroom stall.” He laughs again and disappears behind the hippo.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO:

THE PILL

I HOPE this works. I mean, it has to work.

"Sammy, can you get mommy a glass of water?" I ask, watching him put the final touches on his stick-figure drawing.

I wonder if I'll forget about him. I wonder what will happen to all my memories. I watch the little head of blond curls bounce over to me, happy and carefree.

"Here Mommy. Here's your water," he says, with a content look.

"Thank you, Sammy," I respond with a lump in my throat.

I carefully place the glass of water down on the counter and kneel down to Sammy's level. "Come here, sweetie," I say, wrapping my fingers gently around his little arm. I pull him in close to me.

"What's the matter, Mommy?”

"Sammy, Mommy’s going to go find Daddy now. But, you are going to be just fine. I promise you." I pull him in tightly, wrapping my arms firmly around his back. Words aren't coming to me. I can barely breathe as I contemplate the decision I’ve already made. I kiss Sammy firmly on the top of his head and inhale the sweet smell of his freshly cleaned hair. “Do you think you’ll be okay staying with Grandpa for a while?”

“Of course I will be. I already told you this.” A broad smile stretches across his dimply cheeks. “Do you want me to tell him you’re leaving?”

“No, no. Let him sleep a little longer. When I leave, you can wake him up. I will leave him a note.” I grip the countertop above me and pull myself up to my feet. If I don't do this now, I won't do it.

I place the green pill on my tongue and pour the cold tap water down my throat. I fall to my knees, not from the pill, but because of the fear eating away at my nerves. I could have just killed myself with this thing, and I won’t know until I either wake up or don’t. I try to remember Sammy’s words.

You have to live before you die.

Sammy wraps his arms around my neck and presses his face into my cheek. “You made the right decision, Mommy. I’m proud of you.” I look at his face, his smile, his freckles, and his beautiful blue eyes.

My focus wavers and his face blurs into a blinding light.

The light is warm like the sun, and the air around me feels like a blanket of clouds. I hear laughter in the distance as I become a part of an unknown world—one that's warm, welcoming, but not so new.

I’m in a tunnel of memories. They’re surrounding my head like a domed theatre, and they’re speeding by me like cars on a highway. I catch a glimpse of each one. Each memory is filled with sound, smell, emotions, and touch. I can feel Alex. I can smell him. Our lengthy car ride from Charleston to San Diego sweeps by me. I can see the image of laughter, singing, and the wind blowing our hair everywhere. I hear Sammy’s voice shrieking Old McDonald Had a Farm from the back seat. I can feel the happiness. I can feel the undying love.

I see the playground near our first apartment in San Diego. Alex’s hand is engulfing mine as we chase Sammy around in circles. I feel whole. I feel real.

Our wedding day.

Our first apartment in Paris.

Tasting cotton candy for the first time.

His words, “I never got a chance to introduce myself to you the other day. My name is Alex Levette.” His voice sounds like honey. My heart tingles and my stomach prickles with nerves. I can feel the same way I felt that day.

Only the happy moments in my life will live on in my memory now. Maybe I am dead. Maybe this is what everyone sees when they die. The happy moments in their life.

But as the happy memories end, darkness swoops over me, making me feel as though I took a wrong turn somewhere. Is that possible? Can I really get lost on the way to heaven?

A light blares in my eyes, flashing quickly and then disappearing again.

Life as a child flickers on like a light. It’s not a life I remember though.

Or maybe I do.

I’m riding a bike. I’m wearing a pink Barbie helmet. My dad is on his bike in front of me looking back with a smile. My mother is next to me on her bike, also looking at me with a smile. We’re all happy. We were all happy?

I’m now climbing onto a school bus, and I take a seat with a little blond-haired blue-eyed Alex. “Hey Chlo,” he says in a child’s voice. “What did your mom pack you for lunch today?” Can I answer him? Will he hear me? It’s like a movie that I’m a part of. I was a part of it. It was my life. I think.

The light flickers again. Now I see Alex and me sitting at a small wooden table. We’re gluing Popsicle sticks together. “My mom is going to love this mother of the year award.” The child that must represent me says to Alex.

“Mine too. We’re so lucky, Chloe.”

More lights.

More lights.

More lights.

Headlights.

A car. It’s facing me.

It’s speeding toward me, but in slow motion.

I look to my side. Alex is next to me. Celia is on the other side of him. Alex’s mother and father are in the front seat. Alex’s father removes his hands from the steering wheel and crosses them over his face to block the blinding headlights. I hear Alex’s mother shrieking from the front seat.

“Chloe, Al, close your eyes, kids. It will be okay. I promise.”

More lights.

I hear sirens. They’re muffled. I feel Alex’s hand grab mine. He doesn’t say anything, and I can’t talk. Everything burns. Everything hurts. I want to scream, but I can’t.

More lights flicker.

I was in the car accident with Alex. I don’t understand. I do understand. Am I dead? Am I alive? I’m scared. I’m scared of the light. I’m scared of the dark. I want to get out. I feel claustrophobic. I want to get out. “Help me!” I scream. But no one responds. I don’t think anyone can hear me. I don’t want to be alone anymore.

Darkness and light flicker like a strobe light into my eyes. “I need back up, stat!” I hear a man’s voice yelling from the distance. “Driver B has no pulse. Car reeks of alcohol.”

“Car A?” The voice over a radio says.

“Three adults and two young children. All with severe trauma.”

“Five more vehicles are on the way. Over.”

My mind is becoming numb. I can’t understand where I am. What I’m looking at, hearing, or feeling. Pain surges and then weakens like a contracting fist.

More blinding light.

I hear more sirens. I hear metal ripping apart. I smell smoke, lots of thick smoke. I need to cough. But I can’t. A light bounces around in front of my eyes. It isn’t so blinding, but it’s very unsteady.

I feel a cold wind brush up against my skin. Two fingers press into the side of my neck. “Weak pulse for the girl. We gotta get her out quick.”

My eyes flutter briefly. I see Alex. His eyes are closed. There’s a shard of glass sticking out of his pant leg. Blood is trickling from his nose. And the seatbelt has left a burn mark around his neck. His blond hair is covered with tiny speckles of glass. It looks like someone dumped a bottle of glitter over his head.

My eyes drift over to Celia. She’s so young and beautiful, even with her head pressed up against the glass. I don’t see any blood on her, but I also can’t see very well. My eyes feel blurry, like there’s a glaze of water covering them.

I don’t get a chance to assess Alex’s parents in the front seat before two large hands yank me out. They place me down on a flat board as more coldness shocks my nerves.

More blinding light.

Straps tighten over my body, making it hard to breathe through my lungs. My body presses down firmly against the board as I’m lifted into the air.

“We’re losing her,” a voice shouts from above me.

More blinding light.

I feel my body float upwards. I feel as light as a feather. I feel as if someone wrapped me in a warm blanket and is cradling me in their arms. I smell flowers and freshly cut grass.

I smell heaven.

I feel heaven.

I’m on my way.

The light shining down from the sky is welcoming me with open arms. It’s so inviting. It’s reeling me in with angelic music.

Another blinding light pulls me back down.

Something plastic is shoved over my nose. Hands are pressing hard into my stomach. I feel two objects land on my chest.

Zap. Zap. My body flails in conjunction with the electrical currents whizzing through my body like water from a garden hose that has been released from a long pinch.

“Clear,” a voice shouts.

No. Not again. Let me go. Let me fly into the sky. Zap. Zap. Again. My heart starts pounding against my ribs. The sensation is so harsh I feel as though someone is using a hammer on the inside of my body.

“We have a pulse.”

I’m going to live. I have to live before I die. I recite Sammy’s words, trying to believe in them. I don’t want to open my eyes. I don’t want to see where I am. I don’t want to believe what I’m going through.

Darkness overcomes me again. But there is no light shining from above this time. I hear words muttering over a loud reverberating chime. “We lost her again.”

***

Beeping noises sting my ears. Chatter and footsteps flow alongside of me. The smell is too familiar. It makes me feel sick. It smells like a house cleaner. I want to scream. I want to see where I am. But I can’t. My eyelids are too heavy, and my throat is blocked.

I move my hands from side to side, feeling for a hint. Although, I don’t need one. I know where I’ve reset myself to. I know this is just starting all over again. I’m back in the institution. Back with this stupid tube down my throat. Back to my cold miserable life without Alex. The pill just gave me a second chance in hell.

Maybe it was supposed to work differently than it did. But my life wasn’t meant to be good. My life was meant for the dark. For the cold. For the hate.

Cold fingertips sweep over my knuckles and it makes me shiver. “Chloe, sweetheart?” Sounds like my mother. But the soft soothing tone in her voice isn’t familiar. She wraps her hand around mine and squeezes gently before placing a kiss on my forehead. “I love you, sweetheart. Mommy will be right here when you wake up.”

Mommy? She loves me? Can’t be my mother.

Darkness pulls me back in.

The beach. My beach. Our beach. I love this place, but it feels unfamiliar this time. I’m walking along the shore. I see Alex up ahead, but he isn’t looking at me. Or is he? I speed up, looking right at him. But he walks by me, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. Does he not know me?

I turn around and yell his name. “Alex? Can you see me?”

He stops and turns around to face me. “You remember me?” he asks, along with the sound of a crashing wave.

“How could I not?” I ask, walking toward him with a large smile.

As our shadows crash into each other and his hands reach for mine, light blinds my eyes. I cover my face, shielding the painful burn.

I blink my eyes, forcing them open. I see three lights dangling over my head. The fluorescent glow blinds me from seeing anything else. I continue blinking from the painful glare.

“Chloe?” Dad? I still can’t speak. “Chlover-Belle, sweetheart, can you hear me? It’s Daddy.” Daddy? I haven’t called him that…Oh. Wait. I remember calling him that.

I remember.

I remember everything.

I remember going to school. With Alex. He’s my best friend. I remember my mom being a good mom. My dad being a good dad. I remember going to a birthday party with Alex and his parents. I remember getting into the car with him to go home after the party. I remember the headlights. They blinded me. I remember that loud crunching noise, and my head slamming into a window. I remember blood and shrill screams. I remember sirens. I remember seeing the light that felt more welcoming than the pain I was in. I remember trying to breathe, but choking on my own breath. I remember feeling as though I fell out of a tree, but it was my head against a window instead. I remember being lost in my own head. I remember the rest of my life. A life I’m not sure I’ve lived yet.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE:

REDO

A TUBE SCRAPES against my throat, and I gag in response. My throat feels the way it has so many times. Like sandpaper. The lights above me flicker off.

I can see.

My body feels light. And little.

I look down and my legs are half the size I remember them. My arms as well. My fingers are small. I’m a child. But my mind still feels as though it’s twenty-four.

My mother hovers over me. “Chloe, can you see me, sweet-girl?” Sweet-girl?

“Yes,” I say. My voice is unfamiliar. It’s the voice that belongs to a child.

She’s crying. Crying over me.

“What happened?”

My mother sobs into her arm. She’s nearly hysterical. “Oh, baby. I thought I was going to lose you. I was so scared. You were in a very terrible car accident with Alex, his parents and Celia. Do you remember?”

I do remember. I remember more than a car accident. Was none of it real? Was I dreaming? How can a dream last for fifteen years? That’s impossible. Isn’t it? And then I remember Alex telling me how a dream can seem like a movie in your head. It may cover the span of fifteen years, but the actual length of the movie might only be an hour and a half. Was the dream my future? Or was it a nightmare? I hope it was a nightmare. But then, the parts that were a dream: Alex. Was that real? Did we get married and have a baby? Were we both broken forever? Franco, what about him?

“Yes,” I say. “Am I okay?”

“You are all going to be just fine,” she says with a forced smile. She looks like she’s having a hard time looking at me. What do I look like? Am I deformed? Did my face get cut to pieces?

I place my small hands over my cheeks, feeling for something unfamiliar. But my entire face is unfamiliar. I haven’t felt this face in what seems like fifteen years. How did my mind distort my life so traumatically? I feel smooth skin up to my hairline. Then my fingers run over gauze. The gauze covers my entire head. It makes me nervous. It makes my stomach hurt. What happened to my head?

Did she say we were ‘all’ going to be fine? “All?” I ask.

I turn my head to the side looking across the room, but there is a curtain on the other side of where my mother is standing. I furrow my eyebrows, confused by my surroundings. The curtain flies open.

“About time you woke up. It’s been so boring without you.” Blonde curly hair, blue eyes, freckles in all the right places.

“Alex?” I say softly.

“Chloe?” He mimics me. “What…did you go and die on me or something?” He giggles.

Does he remember? Is he aware of the life we lived together in a future that is becoming more surreal by the minute?

“But . . . ” I clear the pain in my throat. “Do you remember—were you?” I’m not sure how to ask him if he remembers what happened in my mind.

“We’re best friends, Chloe. Sometimes best friends can be in each other’s dreams. Right?”

“A dream?”

“It was a little more than a dream, huh?” he says knowingly.

He knows. He remembers?

“Second chances?” he questions me.

“Second chances,” I repeat.

“We’re okay now. We’re more than okay,” he says.

But how? We were still in an accident. The accident that caused Alex to become the way he was. How did that just change? I look away from Alex and I see a young girl sitting in the corner of the room. Who is that?

She looks over at me with a scared look. My memory flashes with an image of Kiera. It’s Kiera. Now I remember. Her arm is in a cast. Was she hurt too?

“Kiera?” She looks up at me with red eyes and rosy cheeks.

“Are you okay?” her trembling voice asks.

“I don’t know,” I respond honestly.

“I’m sorry my daddy hurt you,” she says.

“Your daddy?” I question. Should I even know about him?

My mother places a hand on Kiera’s shoulder and nods her head. “I’ll explain it, sweetie.”

What’s going on? How did James, Franco, Simon or Tomas hurt me? I killed him. Didn’t I?

My mother sits down on the edge of the bed and places her hand over mine. “Sweetie. James, who is Kiera’s biological father and my brother, was the person who caused the car accident. You’ve never met him, sweetheart. He wasn’t a good person. He had a lot of problems and he’s hurt a lot of people.” Why was Kiera even with him then?

I know I look confused, and it’s enough to prod my mother for more information. “He took Kiera from the birthday party you were all at. She didn’t want to go with him. But he wasn’t very nice to her, and he made her go.”

“Is Kiera my cousin?” I already know this to be true. I already know a lot more than I should know. And I still don’t know how.

“Yes, Kiera is your cousin. Do you remember now?” I don’t remember that. Or maybe I do.

“Yes,” I say, hoping to avoid more explanations of what I already know.

“Kiera was wearing her seatbelt, thank God.” My mother looks over at Kiera and waves her over.

“Is he—“ My voice crackles in a high-pitched sound. I sound so little. So young and unfamiliar.

“Uncle James didn’t make it, Chloe. He has gone up to heaven,” she says, with a tear falling from her eye.

“My daddy won’t be able to hurt me again,” Kiera smiles gently. She looks unsure of her smile, of her happiness. As if she shouldn’t be happy about finding out her father just died. But if her father resembles Franco in any way, I can understand her happiness.

Did he die because of me? Did my killing him in my mind have anything to do with what was happening in real life? I know my intention was to kill the demon within my own mind, and I suppose he would have been the demon within my life if he lived.

“Is Alex okay?” My thoughts startle me. I remember the outcome of the car accident. I remember how his brain became damaged causing his life to spiral into silence and incomprehension.

“Chloe, I can hear you.” Alex laughs from the bed next to mine. “I’m okay now and so are you.” He smiles.

Does he know what I know? Did he see what I saw? Did he experience what I lived through? Or would have lived through?

My dad walks back into the room followed by a couple of doctors. I hear him explaining what happened when I woke up. “Is she going to be okay, Doctor?”

“Well, let me take a look at her, sir,” the doctor says.

He points a light into my eyes and flicks it on and off. “We’ll have to do another MRI Scan before we have any further information,” he says to my dad.

I can’t quite figure out what happened to me. What’s happening to me, or what is going to happen to me? Did I drift into the future? Did I drift back to the past? Did I drift at all?

“Chlover-Belle, they’re going to do a couple more tests on you. But you know what, you are awake now. And that’s all that matters to me, sweetie. You gave Mommy and Daddy quite a scare. We almost lost you a couple of times. You’ve been out cold for hours.”

Hours? It’s only been hours? How did I experience fifteen years of living in only a few hours? My mind doesn’t feel like a child’s mind. My mind feels experienced, like an adult’s mind.

“Mr. and Mrs. Valcourt, could I have a word with you for a moment please?” The doctor waves my parents out into the hallway.

“I’m going to go find my mom in the waiting room, Chloe. I’ll be right back,” Kiera says, following my parents out the door.

Alex hops down from his bed and comes over to sit on my bed. I’m not sure what to say to him. I’m scared that he doesn’t remember anything that happened in my mind. I’m scared that I imagined all of that. My heart still aches.

He places his hand over my knee. I look at it, study it. I see the same freckles on his knuckles that I’ve become familiar with. But I only became familiar with them as I lived like an adult. Would a child notice such detail?

“I remember,” he says.

“You remember?”

“My mind doesn’t feel like it should. I feel like I’m thinking as an adult. Is that how you feel?” he asks.

“Yes, but how?” I ask.

“Something happened during the accident. I was unconscious too and I almost died.”

“Are your parents okay?” I ask, hoping that their death wasn’t true.

“Yes. They will be okay. They are both in intensive care upstairs. Aunt Celia is okay too. She should be back any minute now. She was lucky. Only needed some stitches.”

“Oh. That’s good.” I want to be happy that everything is okay. But I still don’t understand anything.

“Chloe, we’re special. You know that, right?”

“Yes. We can…drift?” I ask, questioning if that word means anything to him.

“Right. But, we don’t need to anymore. We drifted because we were running away from a cruel reality. You got rid of Franco, right?”

I nod, ashamed of my actions.

“Chloe, his demise took the place of ours. Basically, your dream of the future changed the past. Now, everything is the way it should be.” He jumps up from my bed with a spring in his step, childlike. Because…we are children, again.

“So, was it all real?” I ask as he climbs back into his bed.

“The good parts,” he says surely.

“Sammy?” The word takes my breath away. I left him behind or . . . ahead, I guess.

“Someday,” he says.

“How do you know?”

“I just know.” He shrugs.

“This is kind of weird. Ya know, knowing?”

“It’s better than the alternative.” He gives me a side smile. He’s right about that. He presses a button on the side of his bed and a buzzing noise follows. A young nurse who looks like Charlie bounces into the room. “You’re awake, Chloe?” Her voice sounds like Charlie’s too. She’s just so much younger. “I’m nurse Charlie.” It is her.

I bob my head up and down, agreeing with her statement.

“I’m so happy to see you’re doing better. We were all quite worried about you.” She smiles and walks behind me to fluff my pillow. “Alex did you click your buzzer?”

“How about some ice cream?” He asks with a greedy smile.

She giggles and nods her head dismissively at him with a smirk. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. But don’t go telling all the other kids around here. I’ll get in trouble.”

“Thank you,” Alex squeals with delight.

Everyone in my drift or dream was real in some way. They were more than just in my mind; they’re all part of my heart too.

My parents return with a couple of doctors. “Chloe, it’s time to take a magic picture of your brain,” one of the doctors says.

They roll my bed away from Alex, and I look at him, scared to leave his side again. I’m afraid he’ll be gone when I get back. He’s my only comfort right now. He’s the only thing keeping my head straight from all of these mixed thoughts. He’s my only solid foundation. My constant.

“I’ll see you when you get back, Chloe. I’ll save your ice cream for you,” he shouts. “I’ll try anyway.” I hear his giggles from down the hallway.

A man passes by me on the way. A man who looks like a younger version of Dr. Greene. He’s wearing a straightjacket. His eyes are dark and his hair is everywhere. He looks at me knowingly while passing by. And suddenly I know everything is the way it should be.

Two large doors glide open, revealing a large tunnel-like contraption. It looks like it could eat me.

“I know it looks scary, but I promise it’s just a large camera,” the doctor says.

Loud banging noises echo within the machine, and it’s hurting my ears. They tell me to keep my eyes open and look at the picture of Mickey Mouse on the top of the machine.

I focus on the drumming noises and listen for the rhythmic beat. My ears start to feel numb from the sound and I begin to feel tired again. Just as I feel like I might fall asleep, the machine turns off and the light disappears. The table I’m on slides forward and I’m pulled off of the machine and placed back on the bed.

The doctors meet with my parents in the corner of the room while a nurse makes me comfortable again. But they’re close enough that I can hear what they’re saying.

“The good news is that it looks like the bleeding has stopped, which means her likelihood of falling back into a coma has diminished.”

“Thank God,” my mom cries into her hands, falling into my dad.

“But, I fear that Chloe might have experienced some episodes of lucid dreaming over the past day.”

“What does that mean?” my father asks.

“It means that the lateral prefrontal cortex was not working properly. In other words, dreaming and her sense of logic were working together at the same time. Usually it’s one or the other—dreaming while asleep and logic when awake. When they occur at the same time, a person has the ability to recognize that they are in a dream. Sometimes these dreams can seem as though they last for years when in reality it has only been a couple of hours.”

“I see,” my father responds. He looks confused, but I understand exactly what the doctor just explained.

“It can be quite scary for a child to experience lucid dreaming. A child’s mind is more creative than an adult’s mind. They have the ability to utilize more parts of their brain than the average adult. This also allows them to imagine far more than you could ever imagine. Those memories might stick with her, if she in fact did experience this. If that’s the case, we’ll want to have her see a child psychologist. But, if a few memories are the worst of her injuries, we should all be thankful.” The doctor walks over to me and places his hand over my shoulder. “Looks like you’re going to be okay, kiddo. We’re going to be sending you home with your parents tomorrow.” He smiles. And my parents are smiling from across the room.

I will never tell them about my dream. Ever.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR:

A CHILD’S STATE OF MIND

I HEAR FEET padding along the wooden floors, running in circles. It wakes me from my nap. The doctor suggested I take little catnaps during the day to help heal my injuries. He said soon I’ll be as good as new. But he doesn’t know that I still have the mind of a twenty-four-year-old. My secret and Alex’s.

I press my hands onto the floor around me and push my body up. I hear teacups clinking against glass. I hear the laughter flowing from the other room. We came over to Alex’s house a few hours ago. It’s weird; I haven’t been in his room since before the accident.

I stand up and scan my eyes up and down Alex’s walls. Scribbles cover every inch. They’re mostly stick figure drawings like Sammy’s.

I miss him.

I turn around to face the opposite wall, still admiring all of Alex’s artwork. A mirror catches my eye. I haven’t wanted to look at myself since I got home from the hospital. I’ve been scared of what I might see, or what I won’t see. But the reflection that just caught my eye drags me in.

A little girl with curled brown pigtails, reddish freckles, bright green eyes, rosy cheeks, and a pink sundress with bright green watermelons on it. I don’t remember ever wearing something so pretty.

I hear another wave of feet pound down the hall. The running stops. Footsteps creep up behind me, and a hand is placed on my small shoulder. “Mornin’ sleepy head.” I whip my head around. “Have a nice nap? Do you need a new diaper too?” He laughs, poking fun at a seven-year-old having to take naps.

“Very funny.” I mimic his laugh.

“Hey, Chloe.” His eyes morph into a devilish glare. “I’m gonna getchya.” He pulls out a toy gun from behind his back. I gasp and back up against the wall. He laughs and drops the gun. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I know you hate this stupid thing. Here, maybe this won’t scare you.” He pulls out a small rosebud from behind his back and hands it to me.

“A flower?” I ask.

“Roses are your favorite,” he says.

“They are,” I agree. I inspect the flower and see that a locket is wrapped tightly around the stem. “Put that in your pocket, and promise me you’ll never lose it again. Okay?”

I nod. “I promise, Alex.” He wraps his arms around my neck and hugs me tightly. “Everything is perfect now,” he whispers. “Our dreams have come true.”

He pulls away and shoves his pinky finger in my face. “Best friends forever?”

“Forever,” I say.

My smile hurts. I’ve never smiled this hard.

“Chloe, Alex, time to go,” a voice calls.

We both run out into the living room. My mother, Celia, and Alex’s mom are seated on the couch with teacups in hand. They are all smiling, all happy. “Alex, honey, go get Chloe’s sweater for her,” his mom says.

“Sure, Mom.”

“Chloe, sweetheart, did you have fun?” My mom smiles and opens her arms out wide.

“I did. Yes.” I walk over to her and she wraps her arms around me. “Love you, Chlover-belle. Do you want macaroni and cheese tonight?” She looks more excited about that than any kid would. “Dad said he’s making it special just for you.”

“I would love macaroni and cheese…Mom.”

“I will see you two ladies tomorrow after school,” my mom says.

“I’ll have the tea waiting,” Celia chirps. “Bye, Chloe.” She blows me a kiss and winks her eye at me.

***

I walk in through the large metal doors of the familiar elementary school. The halls are bright, full of children’s drawings. I was told to go to room 2 today—first day of second grade. I look at each wooden door until I find the right classroom. I walk inside and see Alex sitting in the back corner, waving at me frantically. “Chloe, I saved you a seat!” he yells from the back of the room.

I walk on back and sit in the empty desk. I feel nervous—first day of school jitters. The classroom filters in with at least two-dozen seven-year-olds. The scent of chalk and dust ring as a reminder of what the first day of school smells like.

A male teacher walks in and writes his name on the board with a piece of chalk. The name says, Mr. Jack Ousterwitzel. He draws a straight line under his name, and I hear some of the kids trying to pronounce his last name. He turns around and laughs. I recognize him.

“I know, I know. It’s a mouthful. How about you all call me Mr. Jacko?” He’s younger than what I remember, but I’m happy to see he’s a teacher, rather than an assistant murderer. “Time for attendance.” His teeth glisten under the fluorescent lights.

He calls a bunch of names, then Alex’s, then mine. “We have a new student in the second grade, children. Sammy, are you back there?” he calls out.

The little boy in front of me raises his hand. “Sammy?” I whisper. The blonde curls whip around and the glistening blue eyes catch me by surprise. He places his finger up to his mouth. “Shh.” He smiles. “Just visiting.” He offers a quiet laugh.

Alex laughs along with him. “Told you not to worry. He’s still a drifter. He’ll settle down when it’s his time.”

I roll my eyes and find humor rather than shock in seeing Sammy sitting in front of me. I can see what Alex meant by not having to drift. I have felt the urge a couple of times since waking up, but life is so good right now, that I can’t find a reason to leave the current moment I’m living in. Maybe after I’ve lived a long life full of love and happiness, I’ll want to drift back into the past to remember just how happy I am right now.

My parents love me. They treat me as if I’m special. They treat me like they never knew I was broken. I’ve decided to hide the fact that I have an ability that might change how they perceive me. They don’t need to know, and I don’t have a reason to find another reality.

After seeing how hard life can get, I will appreciate every small thing I have. After all, not everyone is lucky enough to know that their very best friend in the whole world will someday be the love of their life and the father of their future child. Someday, my life is going to end like a fairytale and I’ll be able to close my book saying…and I lived happily ever after.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE:

YEAR 2023

“I WOULD NOW LIKE to congratulate the class of 2023! Congratulations college graduates, life is out there waiting for you. Make us proud,” the dean yells from the podium.

We all remove our caps and throw them wildly into the air. I did it. I graduated college. I am now a licensed psychologist in the state of Massachusetts. Unbelievable. As I gather my cap from the ground, I stand up to two flinging arms wrapping around my neck. “Can you believe we graduated, lady?” Kiera shouts in my ear.

I nod and smile. “Nope.” It’s unreal. It was supposed to be unreal. She squeals, “There’s Alex!”

I turn around, clutching my cap against my chest. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me in firmly against him. His lips cover mine as he lifts me up into his arms. “I’m so proud of you, Chlo,” he whispers into my ear.

My parents rush up behind him, placing their hands over Alex’s shoulder. “Chlover-Belle,” my dad hoots. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”

“Me too, Chloe,” my mom says, wiping a happy tear from her eye.

“Chlo, my parents are waiting for us at the restaurant. You ready to head over there?” Alex asks.

“Yes, but there’s one place I need to stop off at first. Wanna come?” I ask.

He looks confused, but he’ll understand when we get there. It’s something that needs to be done, for myself. “Sure,” he says with a questioning lift of his brow.

We hop into his Jeep wrangler, which is like riding in a comfortable cage. When the temps hit sixty degrees, the roof and windows come off. I don’t mind. The wind in my face, Alex’s hand on my knee, and the feeling of freedom never get old. What may have only been a nightmare for a few hours, has deeply affected every second of my life since then. In a good way.

“Where are we going, crazy girl?”

“Burnette Park Cemetery,” I say, looking straight on in order to avoid the glare I’m probably getting right now.

He doesn’t say a word. He just continues to drive.

I step out of the Jeep and walk up the grassy hill. I stare at the only gravestone with no flowers in front of it. I study the words, In memory of James S. Bonet 1964-2008. No one visits here. No one misses him. But his death saved my life from being the nightmare I experienced. His death allowed me to live in peace. For that, I needed to say, “Thank you.”

Alex places his arm around my shoulder. He knows why I’m thanking him. He knows what could have been. He knows that James’s death gave us life. He wouldn’t say you’re welcome. But I still wanted to say thank you.

With a kiss on my temple, Alex slips his fingers between mine and pulls me away and back to the car.

Alex pulls away from the cemetery and drives on to the restaurant where we are meeting our parents. When we pull into the lot, he puts the car in park and shifts his body to look at me.

“Before we go in, I have to give you your graduation present.”

Excitement roars through my stomach, not knowing what it could be. He shifts his weight and pulls something out of his back pocket. “Two tickets to Paris. You and I have a date at the top of the Eiffel Tower.”

I squeal. I know what he means by that. Why change a moment that was perfect in the first place? Reliving it though, that I would happily do every day of my life. “Can I already tell you yes?”

“No,” he laughs. “Because I haven’t asked you anything that warrants that answer yet.” He winks, toying with my excitement.

“Yes, you have.” I punch him in the shoulder.

“Only in your dreams, baby.”

EPILOGUE

I WAS LOCKED in my own darkness for far too long. I was trapped in a mind that didn’t want to think, feel, or love. Chloe broke me free from a cold world. She changed our past and created our future. A car accident that was meant to be the demise of both of our lives, turned out to be the blessing that saved us both.

I took Chloe to Paris and up to the Eiffel Tower. I asked the girl in my dreams to marry me. To make me the happiest man again. She and I are the only ones who know of the life we almost lived. To us it was real. To us it was fifteen years of struggles. To us, we are soul mates. Nothing in this world could change that.

I loved this girl when I was seven years old. I loved this girl in an alternate reality. I will love this girl until the day we both die. But today, it’s our fiftieth wedding anniversary. I’ve taken her, Sammy, his wife and two kids to Paris for an anniversary celebration.

“You seriously want to go down here, Dad?” Sammy asks, weary of my choice of events today.

“It’s quite amazing down there. Trust me,” I say.

We walk down the hundred steps into the underworld of Paris—the Catacombs—a place in which Chloe and I are no longer afraid. I play tourist and call out the different artifacts and what they represent. Our tour leads us to a large rock in front of a black gate. I watch as Chloe clutches her hand around her heart.

“Alex?” she questions.

I hand Sammy my camera. “Son, take a picture of your mom and me.” I tug on Chloe’s hand and pull her in front of the large rock where her locket once rested. “Smile, Chlo. This is an important picture. I’m putting it in your locket when we get home so you can always remember this moment.”

-THE END-

A NOTE TO MY READERS

Thank you for sticking with me until the end of this series. These three books have meant so much to me, and I feel as though they are a part of me in some ways. I’ve been asked before where I came up with the idea for this story. This is where it originated:

At six years old, I remember sitting on the school bus trying my hardest to stay awake. I lost that battle and fell asleep. I dreamt that I missed my bus stop and it scared me awake. At that moment, I wondered, what if I was only dreaming that I was awake? From that point on, I’ve always thought of that bus ride, wondering if maybe I’m still asleep and someday after living a full life all of these years, I might wake up a six-year-old on that bus ride home from school. Would I change my life? Would you change yours? These are the spinning thoughts that created this wild story.

The mind is a powerful thing and you should never underestimate its capabilities. You never know, you might just be in your own drift right now.

Thank you for all of your love and support.

—Shari J. Ryan

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’d like to thank my amazing team for your constant support and hard work. To Jennifer Gilbert, my amazing book manager and friend, and Katrina Randall, my incredibly talented editor and friend. A book is nothing without all its moving parts and I appreciate you both for everything you have done. Thank you for being a part of this amazing journey with me.

I owe a big thanks to Katherine Sears and Ken Shear for being the foundation and support for my lifelong dream of publishing books.

To Jesse James Freeman, Allie Burke and Marni Mann, thank you for your endless author support and friendship. I don’t know where I’d be without you guys.

Authors depend on the support of all the amazing book bloggers out there. I’ve met a lot of passionate bloggers throughout this experience, and I feel very fortunate to have worked with so many of you. Thank you for your constant support.

My family and friends have shown me nothing but love and encouragement over the past couple of years, and I truly appreciate your consistent interest in books and the path my books are taking. You’ve all made me want to keep writing as well as continue this exciting career of creating new stories.

I could never thank my husband, Josh, enough for the consistent love, support and inspiration you give me every day. You have always been my rock and I write because you told me I should. My books are complete because of you. I love you for always pushing me to reach higher. And to my two little boys, Bryce and Brayden, I want you to always know how important it is to never give up on your dreams. Reach as high as you can, and then when you think you can’t reach any higher, try a little harder--you never know where you might end up.

If you enjoyed The Schasm Series, make sure you check out:

TAG

Coming this fall from Booktrope Editions

PROLOGUE

THE SHADOW GROWS in the corner of the slab wall in front of me and I now know it’s either him or me. It will not be me. I won’t let it. The echo of gravel crunching beneath his feet alerts all of my senses. I hear the hollow short breaths wheezing from his weary lungs. The pursuit is up. I dig my fingertips into the brick wall behind me, bracing myself to face this demon once and for all.

A translucent red dot jumps off the wall behind me, and my focus is pulled further into the conjoining street of this dimly lit alley. I’m able to draw an invisible line between the red glow and a hollow barrel. My throat swells around my tonsils. I can do this.

The shadow slinks into the light and a knot pinches in my stomach.

Krissy.

Blood-stained fingers are buckled around my little sister’s mouth and a knife is pressed against her pulsating throat.

The corners of his lips curl upward into an evil grin, revealing more blood. He’s only holding on for effect—only so I can watch every second of her miserable death.

Her dark cobalt eyes are large with silver speckles from the reflection of the stars above. They highlight her fear. Her chest heaves in and out. In and out, faster and faster, fighting against the last breaths she will take. Time has stopped around us. The world is out-of-focus, and it’s just her and me—the little girl kneeling next to me at our dollhouse, the little girl sitting at the other side of our tea party table, the girl whose shoulder has gathered so many of my fallen tears. The girl who will make my life meaningless once she is gone. I will always protect you, I want to say. But it’s too late.

The hand that doesn’t have a knife pressed up against Krissy’s neck lifts and the red dot finds my chest.

“Last chance to tell me where he is,” he snarls through a gravely shout.

If I knew, I would have told him way before it got to this. My sister should not have to die in his place, and neither should I. I would happily take that bullet for my sister, except I know he has more than one bullet.

I slip my hand into the back waistband of my pants and curl my finger around the trigger. I have one chance. Please, God. Save her. My hands spring forward and I pull the trigger without focusing on the target.

The bullet grazes the side of his torso, and a simultaneous bite of pain burns through my shoulder. I’ve been shot as well. The right side of my body is immediately numb. My knees buckle and my body tumbles to the gravel as if I were pulled down by a magnetic force.

His grin returns and it glows with hate in the dark. He looks my sister in the eyes and pulls the knife through her throat with one smooth glide. My heart hammers against my ribcage. I can’t feel anything, yet I’ve never felt so much.

Krissy’s thick, wavy onyx-colored hair spills over her flushed cheeks as her head crashes to the pavement. Her eyes are still staring at me, but the girl inside is gone.

The asshole looks back at me. I’m next. And that’s fine. I don’t close my eyes. I will stare death in the face. I am braver than what stands between me and whatever exists on the other side of this life.

Sirens scream in the distance and the glow of lights bounce off the surrounding walls. I called when I gained some headway earlier. I knew I didn’t lose him, but if I were going to call the cops, it had to be that second. I told them where I was leading him.

While it only took them five minutes and twenty seconds to find us, they were twenty seconds too late. Krissy’s neck was already slashed.

Acknowledging the sirens, the asshole points his blood-covered finger at me and the corner of his lip pulls up into a sneer as he shoves the knife into a holster on his leg and darts around the corner, clutching his wounded area with both hands.

I drag myself over to my sister’s lifeless body. I sweep the hair off of her pale flesh and place a kiss on her forehead. “I will kill him, Krissy, even if I die trying. And if I don’t die, I will live for both of us.”

I lay my head on her chest, listening to the slow beat of her heart. I pray for the next thump until there is only silence within her.

Now I pray for her peace, and I wish death upon her murderer.

CHAPTER ONE

LOOK AT ME. You know you want to.

I slide my pen in between my teeth and arch my left brow slightly. Eye contact. Check.

I love a good first day of school. The scent of floor cleaner, paper, and whiteboard markers waft through the air. Everyone is dressed neatly in their back-to-school attire and brand new shoes. These are things students get excited about, looking the new year head on with a fresh outlook. I look at it as a ticking time bomb—there’s no telling how long I’ll be able to stay here. Sometimes it’s a week; sometimes it’s six months—usually not much longer. And it’s already been five months.

The classroom is moderately sized, fit to seat thirty students at most. The seats are filling in slowly, and the professor is fumbling with a pen at the podium, studying each student who enters into the classroom. Most professors decorate their classrooms with articles, pictures, and diagrams. Not this guy. The walls are all empty except for the whiteboard behind the podium. But even the whiteboard is blank.

“Welcome to Cognitive Psychology,” the professor says. His voice is gruff and sultry—it sounds forced, like he’s reeling in his bait.

I’ve gotten too good at this no blinking game. It works the fastest: large doll-like eyes seem to be the object of his attraction. Therefore, I earned his attention five minutes ago, and I can see a nervous twitch developing behind his menacing brown eyes. What an act. A teacher should be used to students staring at him, but he’s not a real teacher.

I glide the pen slowly out from between my teeth and curl my tongue around it before removing it from my clenched bite.

He clears his throat. Check.

“I’m going to pass around the syllabus now. Why don’t you all take a few minutes to look it over, and I’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have.” He lifts the stack of papers from his desk and wets the tip of his thumb with the side of his tongue. I bite down on the bottom corner of my lip in response. I know he can see me.

Lucky for him, I’m sitting in the front row. He stands before me with an unsteady hand and fumbles through the papers before handing one to me. A strand of his perfectly quaffed auburn hair falls over his forehead. Keeping my focus steady, I take inventory of every freckle on his face, noting the slight cleft in the center of his chin, and memorizing the location of the slight bend in the middle of his nose. I can hear the fluctuation of his breaths. They quicken as his hand reaches out to mine.

My fingertips purposely stroke over his tough ivory skin as I tug at the papers. “Thank you, professor—” I place the tip of my finger between my teeth. “Did you forget to introduce yourself? Or were you too…preoccupied to notice?” I look him up and down, playing into the game I already know he likes to win.

He stumbles backwards until he knocks into the podium. “Class, I apologize. I seem to have forgotten to introduce myself. My name is Professor Lance,” he says breathlessly as he scribbles his name across the board. His handwriting looks as though it belongs to an eight-year-old boy, which confirms his animal-like tendencies and lack of confidence.

“Ah, much better, professor…Lance.” My voice is brash and carries over the muffled whispers behind me. He shifts his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. Check. I have this game in the bag.

Might just be the fastest one yet.

When he passes by me to the next aisle, my hair is tugged and my head is pulled backwards. I swivel my body around in my blue plastic seat and offer a guileful grin.

“Cali, seriously?” Lex sighs, giving me an exaggerated eye-roll. “Leave him alone. He looks like a nice person.”

“Those are the most fun, Lex.” I thrust my chest out and release an exaggerated sigh. “You wouldn’t believe me unless you tried it.” She won’t try it. So unknowing. So innocent.

“You need help, lady,” she says with a sidelong smile.

I waggle my eyebrows and turn back around. It isn’t me who needs help, I want to say out loud.

“He’s married. And not interested,” she whispers in my ear with a hint of hostility.

“Is that a challenge?” I whisper back. I love proving her wrong. She has yet to acknowledge my expertise on the male brain. I’ve only been in this town for five months, but Lexy has followed me around like a lost child. I’m guessing I’m entertainment for her.

I study his every word, his every move, and his every blink over the course of the next hour. The bell in the hallway chimes and the class filters out and excitement begins to wave through me.

Lex slaps my arm, nudging me out of my study. “Let’s go, Cali. Lunch.” I can sense she’s beginning to get bored with what she thinks is just a game.

“Meet you there in five,” I say, pulling my arm out of her reach. She groans, ultimately giving up the fight, then turns and bustles out the door with the rest of the eager lunch-ravenous students.

I drop my notebook into my bag and stand up slowly. Once again, I pinch my lip inbetween my teeth. Then I sling my bag over my shoulder. Perfect. Last one to exit the room.

Three. Two. One—

“I’m sorry I didn’t get your name?” he calls over. I shake my head, locking my most innocent gaze with his. “Nice to meet you,” I say in a hushed voice. “I’m Cali Tate.” A nervous smile tugs at his lips. Captured.

It’s clear he doesn’t know what Tate family I belong to. I twirl a strand of hair around my finger and widen my eyes. “You didn’t ask any of the other students their names. Why me? Do you…like what you see? Is that why?” I curl my lips into a slight smirk, knowing I just twisted his fucked up mind into pretty little knots.

“I. Ah. Ah. Have a nice day, Ms. Tate.”

I fidget with the zipper on my coat and drop my gaze to the ground. “Um. You too, professor?” I spin on my heels and quickly leave the classroom. I’ve added the icing to this cake. I love fucking with fuckers.

I slump down into the warm leather driver’s seat of my car, and I pull down my mirror to reapply my lip-gloss. When I look at my eyes, I feel ashamed. I feel like Mom would be disappointed in me. Then I wonder if she would be proud of me for protecting the innocent. Although, I’m not sure retaliation falls under protection. In any case, I try to avoid my reflection—the uncontrollable devil as I’ve been told. It’s hard to remember back to when I wasn’t like this—when I wasn’t on a constant revenge kick—when Mom and Krissy were still alive. I feel like when that happy life ended, this new shitty one was its replacement.

The vibration of my phone disrupts my stony glare. I press the speaker button on the screen and place the phone back down on my lap. “Hey.”

“Where are you, Cal?”

“School,” I respond matter-of-factly.

“Well, you need to drop out and leave.”

I bite my tongue. We’re like oil and water and I try to keep our arguments to a minimum. The big brother routine has gotten old. “Jase, I’m fine where I am.”

“The hell you are,” his voice lowers into a whisper. “He’s inbound to your location.”

Shit. I impulsively check the rearview mirror. It’s clear.

“Okay,” I reply earnestly. “Four days and out.”

“Whatever, Cal. Watch your back, sis.”

I press end and drop the phone back into my bag. Dammit. I have four days to complete this task. I look back at the devil’s reflection. The bright blue hues that used to reside within my irises are now dull, making the color appear gray. My eyes appear half-lidded, and my complexion is pale. I’m worn out, and my mind is constantly in battle with the mission my eyes are always set on. I’m doing this for the right reason. This one is for Sasha, the only person who tried to help me pick up the pieces after Krissy was murdered. Everyone gets what they give, and I’m going to make sure it happens that way.

I flip the mirror shut and duck back out of my car. I guess I don’t need four days. I can do it today.

I poke my head back into the classroom I left only minutes earlier. It’s his lucky lunch hour. I enter into the room and close the door quietly behind me, pressing my thumb into the lock button at the same time.

“First name?” I ask in a breathy voice.

“Zach.” He visibly swallows the rising lump in his throat. I love this moment when they have no fucking idea what’s about to happen. “Can I do something for you, Ms. Tate?” I allow my eyes to draw a line from his lips down to the bulging seam in his pants.

“Yeah.” I let the strap of my bag fall off my shoulder and drop to my feet. I unfasten the top button of my blouse, giving him the okay to move in toward me, which he does, timidly. His eyes dart back and forth between my face and the doorknob. “Locked,” I whisper.

His hand sweeps around my back and he pulls me into his hardened admirer. “I don’t like games, Ms. Tate.”

That’s not what I heard. “That’s too bad.” I lean forward and skim my teeth against his ear lobe. “Because, I love them,” I utter the words into his ear, and his grip tightens in response. His other hand cups around my chin and he pulls my lips into his. He smells like coffee, but tastes like mint. He’s rough in all the wrong ways, and he’s impatient as well as unpleasantly forceful.

His hand slips down the back of my jeans and palms my ass as he lifts me up, forcing my legs to straddle around his thin, bony waist. My shirt is pulled up over my head and his tongue is immediately tracing a line over my collarbone. His movements are animalistic and untamed. He’s slobbering, and it’s making this hard to get through.

I lower my lips to his ear. “You want me?” I honestly scare myself with how well I can do this.

“You’re a bad girl, Ms. Tate.” You have no fucking idea.

“Have you ever raped anyone in here?” I ask while running my tongue over his earlobe. He hesitates, and I graze my lips down to his jawbone. “I get off on that kind of shit. Did you know that?”

“In that case, yes.” Got it. “She asked for it, though.”

“Sasha, wasn’t that her name?” I nibble on the skin below his ear. “So, if I stop you from going any further,” I pant a little, for effect. “Are you going to pretend I’m Sasha?”

His answer comes out in the form of a growl as he mutters, “I don’t need to pretend. After these little teasing games of yours, you will be mine one way or another. You can call it rape, but I’ll call it retribution for you coming in here like this.”

I push myself off of him and take a few steps back. In a honeyed voice, I say, “Before you rape me, I need a second.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and click send.

“What the fuck did you just do?” he asks. “Get over here you fucking bitch.” He grabs my arm and pushes me over to his desk. He pounces on top of me from behind and starts clawing at my bra. I let out a few cries—pretend cries. But he doesn’t know they aren’t real. He tries to shove his hand down my pants, which gives me the perfect opportunity. I lift my leg and wrap it around the back of his neck. He lifts me up to his chest, and I wrap my arms around his head.

“It’s your move,” I let out a small laugh. “But I warn you. You make the wrong one, and I’ll kill you.”

He drops me to the ground, but I rebound quicker than I fell. I slide my shirt back on and fix the few stray hairs that are curled up on the top of my head. I pull my lipstick out of my back pocket and glide it slowly over each lip.

“What the fuck is your problem, pyscho?” He moves in behind me, and I back kick, shoving the stiletto of my boot right into his perpetrator.

“Fuck you. That’s what,” I respond, staring down at his crouched body and clenched red face. “Oh, and you don’t have to worry about hiding that rape from your wife, the dean, or police anymore.” I slide my phone back out of my pocket and play up my smug grin while checking the screen. “YouTube works so freaking fast nowadays. I’m pretty sure this is record timing, actually. Don’t you think?” I ask in a playful manner. I show him the display on my phone screen. “Damn. I’m good. That totally just went viral.” I laugh a little more, knowing I’m pushing him far over the edge.

His jaw drops open. He adjusts himself and backs up until the back of his knees buckle at his desk chair. “What the—“ He stumbles over his words as a white pallor washes over his strawberry licked cheeks. “Why would you—?“

“Have you heard of Eli Tate?” Recognition washes over his already flushed face.

“Oh shit,” he says with a scowl. “You’re fucking Carolina Tate—Eli’s daughter.”

“You think because you’re a psychology professor you can work a girl’s mind over?” I quirk my brow. “Did you ever wonder what would happen when one of them worked your mind over?”

I straighten my sweater and lift my bag up from the ground. “By the way,” my voice rises in tone as I turn around and tap my finger into the air for effect. “If I were you? I’d just go ahead and off yourself. I mean…your wife is gone.” I count the reasons on my fingers. “Your career is gone.” I press my fingertip into my chin and grin for the final upshot. “Oh, and you’re looking at some serious jail time—you know, the place where you’ll get raped by massive dudes every day? Fun times ahead, I’m sure.”

***

I pull my Elios pizza out of the microwave and drop myself onto the couch for what’s going to be my nightly entertainment. Just as I’m about to shove a greasy slice of pepperoni into my mouth, my phone buzzes on the coffee table. Dammit. It’s probably Jase, warning me again. I reach over and snatch my phone up. I stare at the caller ID for a minute, realizing it has already been a week. Time seems to fly when you never sit still.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, sounding as bored as I normally do.

“Turn on the TV.” Hello to you too. His voice sounds worn and tired. I wonder where he is today. I always wonder where he is, but my imagination is the only source of information I will seem to have.

I flick the remote at the TV and switch to the news station.

“Is this your work?” Dad whispers, as if someone were tracing our call—not that whispering would keep them from hearing this.

“Yes.” I can’t hide the pride in my voice.

“Dammit, Cal. Not good.” He forces a long heavy sigh into the phone. “Leave. Tonight. You hear?”

“Sure,” I say as the call ends. Love you too, Dad.

I shove the slice of pizza into my mouth and turn up the volume. Sweet. I love when people take my advice. Dead at thirty-five. Psychology professor and a recently reported rapist. Zach Lance was found in his classroom with lacerations across his neck. The motives are unclear at this time, but this is an assumable act of suicide.

Job complete.

I press Sasha’s number in my phone. She answers after one ring. “Cali-girl, did you see?”

“Good riddance, huh?” I say, while listening to her faint sobs in the background.

“Maybe it all finally caught up to him,” she says.

“I agree. I’m sure that’s what happened,” I say.

“You can rest easier now.”

“I’m glad I never told anyone. They would be tracing it back to me now, ya know?” she continues crying into the phone.

“It was suicide. Nothing more,” I reassure her. Or at least I try to reassure her. If anyone in this world knows me and what I’m capable of, it’s her.

“Cal?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” she whispers. She doesn’t know what she’s thanking me for. I don’t actually know what she’s thanking me for.

“I gotta run, Sash. Talk to you soon.” I hear her kisses being blown into the receiver and I click the end button.

ALSO BY SHARI RYAN

Schasm: A young woman finds herself lost between what is real and what is imagined, but a chance encounter with a man brings new hope for the future.

Fissure Free: Chloe and Alex reunite in book 2 of the Schasm series in Paris. The young couple discovers any choice they make will ultimately land them in a place they never knew they were destined to be.

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