Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
I whistle.
Sharp and loud. His head snaps toward me, eyes squinting in the dark.
Hook bait. Cast line.
I grab the hem of my shirt and yank it up, flashing my tits like it’s Mardi Gras and he’s got beads. Then I wiggle my fingers in a “come here” gesture as if this is the most normal thing in the world.
He freezes. Looks away.
Dammit.
But then—he looks back.
Gotcha.
I hike my skirt up next, flashing more than just enthusiasm this time, wiggling my hips like I’m starring in the world’s most chaotic strip tease.
Come on, dumbass. How much clearer do I have to be?
He hesitates, then locks his car with a beep and starts walking toward me.
Huzzah! I caught a fish!
Fish, fish, in a dish. Catch a cock and—
But as he gets closer, something shifts. Not in him. In me.
His face comes into focus. He’s just a guy. Totally regular guy. The kind of face you’d forget in a crowd. And suddenly, the buzz under my skin isn’t excitement.
It’s fear.
It’s panic.
Fuck. What am I doing?
Because this isn’t a game.
I’m out of control. I just happen to be aware of it like someone watching outside my body. Fuck!
This is me, but not me. Humpty Dumpty’s off the wall, and there are no king’s horsemen and no king’s men to even try to put me back together again.
I step back, breath hitching, heart still racing, but now for all the wrong reasons.
What the fuck are you doing, Moira?
The man slows, confusion on his face when I turn and bolt—legs pumping, lungs burning, running like if I go fast enough, I can outrun the thing chasing me.
But I can’t.
Because it’s me.
And no matter how far I run, I’m still always right there.
THIRTY-ONE
BANE
The last of the congregation filters out, leaving the church steeped in hollow silence. My collar feels tighter without the noise to distract me. I should be relieved; my duty’s done now that the service is complete. But I’ve been distracted with thoughts of Moira the entire time I dealt with the receiving line.
Where is she? I scan the empty church.
I caught a glimpse of her earlier, a flash of wild hair and feral beauty tucked in the wings of the sanctuary. I tried to make my way immediately to her. But between Mrs. Sanchez’s tearful gratitude for the sermon and Bill Washerman’s desperate plea to pray over his ailing parakeet, she vanished.
I heard the heavy door on the left side of the sanctuary slam shut at some point, so maybe that was her? My pulse stirs in response.
I move through the darkened church, footsteps echoing against the old wooden floors. Shadows stretch long. She’s certainly not here anymore. I frown and push through the door, the cool night air biting.
The mechanical hum of the church’s outdated HVAC system is the only sound that greets me. I pull my phone from my pocket, thumb flicking the dark screen to life, and take it out of airplane mode.
No messages.
No missed calls.
Where the hell did she go?
She was just here. Why’d she run off right when I finished? Did she really think I wouldn’t see her? Is she afraid I’ll be mad at her for coming tonight after I told her not to?
I call her. It rings several times, then goes to voicemail. I grit my teeth, thumb hovering before I hit redial. Again—nothing but that hollow beep after a few rings.
My breath escapes in a hiss, tight with something dangerously close to fear. She was just here. Did she leave already?
I text her, pacing the cracked pavement behind the church, the cold seeping into my bones.
Me: I just want to hold you tonight.
I stare at the message, willing it to reach her.
Maybe she’s driving, and that’s why she’s not answering. Even though I know her car can receive my phone calls without a problem.
I call again.
And then I hear it—faint, like a whisper tucked between the rustling leaves and distant traffic. Ginuwine’s Pony. My head snaps toward the sound. It’s her ringtone for me.
To the right of the church, there’s a small garden. A cluster of trees meant to be a meditative space. The faint glow of a phone winks through the darkness before vanishing.
I sprint. My heart slams against my ribs.
“Moira!” My voice cuts through the night. Brittle winter leaves crackle under my feet until I see her—a silhouette crumpled on a large boulder, hands tucked under her as if trying to hold herself together.
Thank God. She’s here. She’s in one piece. But then I see the tremble in her shoulders and how her whole body’s shaking with more than cold. And how she’s sobbing.
“Moira!” She has a jacket on, but her legs are still exposed, and it’s freezing out here. “What are you doing?” I crouch down and pull her into my arms—or try to. She fights me and scrambles off the rock and back.