by Pamela Crane
Donna’s blond hair was styled in cute braided pigtails, so I decided to braid my own. I fingered my hair, twisting it into two braids. Satisfied with my new look, I envied the latest fashion trends that Mom’s minimum-wage-plus-tips job would never be able to afford.
My bag of Doritos crinkled as I placed a cheesy chip in my mouth. I shivered from a brief wave of cold, the last vestiges of winter’s chill. The back door creaked shut, but I ignored it, too engrossed to care if it was Mom arriving home from the bar with a new boyfriend on her arm. Sober or drunk? It was better I didn’t find out.
When I heard a shuffle behind me, I twisted my neck to glance behind me but saw nothing. As I turned back to the television, a grip tightened around my mouth and I couldn’t breathe. The fingers locked down too hard for me to open up my jaw and bite my way to freedom. I tried to inhale through my nose, but his hands covered my nostrils. Shaking my head frantically, I leaned forward, but he was too strong. He jerked me back and held me still. Then gripped harder.
Seconds were passing. Precious seconds of air bidding me farewell.
I whimpered, hoping my unspoken message would reach my attacker:
Please let me go. Please let me breathe.
Still, no air.
I began blacking out, my eyes watering, wondering if Luke Perry’s face was the last I would ever see.
As an ebony cloud shrouded me, my mind screamed for help. Then a picture flashed before all went black. A familiar face.
It was Gina Martinez.
I needed air ... needed air ... needed air ...
**
“Help!” I cried, gasping as I bolted upright in bed. My lungs couldn’t get enough oxygen as I sucked in lungful after lungful. In an effort to calm down, I examined my bedroom. The teal walls, the tastefully simple décor, and my digital clock revealed the ungodly hour of three thirty in the morning. Sure enough, it was my apartment, and I was alone ... or so I hoped.
The dream had felt so real, like a memory, yet so foreign, like it belonged to someone else. I had never been allowed to watch Beverly Hills, 90210 at that age, and I hadn’t bothered to catch up on the show as an adult, so how did I know those characters? And where had I been? It felt surreally like home ... but certainly not my home. Mom never drank, and she kept a pristine house, even during her mourning. And despite her full-time work, a chef-approved dinner was served every night, dishes and kitchen clean before bed. The Rolodex of my mind ticked through my childhood friends, houses I’d visited. Nothing clicked.
Was it some long-buried memory, or a figment of my imagination? Then I recalled the last image I had seen. Gina Martinez, the girl who had been murdered two days ago. Was it her house? How would I know that? I’d never met the girl.
I wanted to forget it all and go back to sleep, but I couldn’t let it go.
After nearly an hour of lying in the dark, afraid to close my eyes for fear of returning to the nightmare, I decided it was morning enough to start my day. I threw on a pair of sweats and a UNC sweatshirt. I brewed a cup of chocolate mint tea and sipped the sweet warmth, staring into the emptiness. My eyes darted at every shadow. Every sound sent me jumping.
I could tell already that it was going to be a long day. And worst of all, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was going to die. More than a feeling, in fact. I knew it. The nightmare fueled this premonition.
When the tea couldn’t sooth my frazzled nerves, I picked up my cell phone and texted Brad.
Babe, u up? Need to talk.
A minute passed before my phone beeped in reply.
Up now. Wzup?
Can i come over?
U serious?
As a heart attack. Pls?
Is this abt yesterday?
I’ll explain when i get there. So can i come over?
Of course, babe. Door’s unlocked.
I grabbed my coat and keys and double-locked my door on the way out. I rarely locked the bolt and knob, but I wasn’t taking any chances. As the cool early morning temperature helped clear my head, I realized something.
I needed air.
**
When I arrived at Brad’s, the lights were off and he was still in bed. I snuck in, bolted the door, and slipped under the covers, spooning next to him and hoping to subtly wake him. I needed to talk through my thoughts.
My restless shifting around must have worked, because soon his brown eyes groggily opened.
“Sorry to wake you,” I said.
“Liar,” Brad teased. “So what’s the problem? You need some of my lovin’?” he said with a coy grin as he nuzzled my neck.
Refusing to feed his advances, I went on talking. “Something is wrong with me.”
“Mmm, nothing’s wrong with you, baby. You’re perfect.” He kissed my jaw, tempering my urgency, but I leaned away.
“Brad, this is serious. I need you to listen to me right now.”
He shifted upright and circled his arm around my shoulders.
“All ears. Is this about what happened yesterday?”
“Sorta ...”
He sighed heavily. “What’s going on?”
Where should I begin? I could find no logical beginning.
“Remember how when we were watching the news yesterday I got sick?” Brad nodded, silent. “Well, I went to bed thinking about that girl, Gina, and her death. I ended up having a horrible nightmare and she was in it. I think my dream is trying to tell me something about her murder. Like I might somehow know who’s murdering these girls.”
Even as I said it I winced at how ridiculous I sounded. As if I had some prophetic ability to see things, to reveal things that the cops couldn’t. But the look of incredulity on Brad’s face pissed me off. I was the only one allowed to think myself crazy.
“What’s that look for?” I growled.
“You realize what you’re saying, right? That you are connected to these murders.”
“No,” I corrected, “not connected to them. Let’s call it a”—I fumbled for the right phrase—“supernatural hunch.”
“Supernatural, as in ... what exactly?” he queried.
“I dunno. Something beyond the natural, I guess.”
“That’s pretty crazy stuff, Mia.”
“I know it sounds nuts, but ... well, I can’t explain it. Something in me knows who’s behind this, and I need to follow my gut on this. This could save lives, Brad.”
“And how do you propose to do that—to catch this killer?” His sarcasm was biting.
“I don’t know yet. I guess I’ll figure it out as I go.”
“As you go? Are you kidding me? Mia, this isn’t Nancy Drew. You’re talking about a serial killer and actual murders here. You could be killed! Stay out of it. You have no business playing detective.”
“And you have no business telling me what to do,” I retorted. Sure, I sounded childish, but I couldn’t think of anything more adult to say. My ire was rising to the point where I couldn’t keep my thoughts—or my words—straight. Or it could have been the meager three hours of sleep making me nonsensical. Either way, Brad was pushing my buttons and I didn’t appreciate it.
“Mia, I just want you to be safe. I care for you. Please promise me you won’t pursue this.”
“I can’t do that,” I said matter-of-factly.
“If you can’t assure me that this is over, then I can’t guarantee that I’ll be around to watch you get hurt.”
Whoa. Brad took the argument to a whole new level, and he definitely wasn’t playing fair anymore.
“Are you breaking up with me?” I asked point-blank.
“That’s up to you, Mia. If you don’t let this go, then I guess you’re forcing my hand. I don’t want to break up with you, but I can’t sit idly by watching you chase danger like it’s a toy.”
“Whatever.” With that, I scooted to the other side of the king-sized bed, as far away from Brad as I could get without falling off, and pouted until the sun peeked through the cream, metal blinds, casting the bedroom
in hues of orange.
Maybe my mom was right about me all these years—I had indeed inherited my father’s stubborn streak.
Read the rest of the book by clicking HERE.
Want more from Pamela Crane?
The Little Things That Kill Series
The Scream of Silence
The Art of Fear
The Death of Life
The Mental Madness Suspense Series
A Fatal Affair
The Admirer’s Secret
The Killer Thriller Series
A Secondhand Lie
A Secondhand Life
Pretty Ugly Lies
