front of her, flickering like a poltergeist, charging from the shadows in the corners, and she stumbled back as the floor gave way like quicksand. Inches from the front door and she couldn’t reach it. She was going to escape, she could see the moonlight on the dirty walkway, the ragged, weed-covered lawn. Camille tried to scream but her voice was gone, and she clawed at the doorframe, trying to drag herself out. Out onto the cold concrete. Outside this hell.
“No, no, no, no. I’m out. I made it. NO!”
“ Yes …” a low voice hissed just behind her ear. She felt that rough palm over her mouth, and then she screamed as it pulled her down.
* * *
Camille sat up with a jerk, dim early morning light cascading through the gap in the curtains. In the hotel room. She was in Smith’s hotel room. In Smith’s bed.
She was out.
She’d made it out.
Her heart was racing in her chest, and her stomach heaved. She barely made it to the trash can next to the dresser, the carpet burning her knees as she threw up again and again. Sweat coated her skin, clammy with it, and she crawled across the floor until she found her gun on the nightstand. Hugging it to her chest as she took deep breaths. Breathe. Center. The memory of Smith’s voice was soothing as she moved air in through the nose, and out through the mouth. Slow and steady.
That had been the worst nightmare in months. Fucking hell.
Camille smacked the center of her forehead with her free hand, leaning back against the side of the bed as if the hard press of it could ground her in the reality where that particular nightmare was over, had been over for almost a year.
This was all because she’d stalked him down.
All because she’d done the right thing.
Watched him. Monitored his habits. Identified four separate places she could take him out without raising an eyebrow.
Now he was in her head again, back to the crippling nightmares that had always sent her clamoring for fresh air. Confirmation that she wasn’t still trapped, still the plaything of a bunch of monsters. She clenched her free hand tight, digging her sharp nails into her palm until she threatened to break the skin.
“Steve is already dead, you fucking know he’s dead, and today is the day Joe Wilson dies.” Camille swallowed and nodded to herself, flipping the safety of the gun on and off with practiced ease. “Today is the day Joe Wilson dies. Then there will be three. Three bastards until the nightmares stop. Three more until you’re fine.”
Chapter Five
Her stomach was still a knotted, empty mess as she followed him from half a block back, her gun tucked against her palm in the pocket of her hoodie. Finger off the trigger, just like Smith had taught her.
It will be today .
Camille breathed slow clouds in front of her, feeling the cold wind chap her cheeks into a reddened blush as she watched the baseball cap bob through the scattered people in front of her. Joe Wilson was walking with the kind of casual, head down stroll of a man with no enemies. If it were possible for her to hate him more, she did then. While she had been starving on the streets, doing all the fucked up things they had viciously taught her just so she could stay alive, he had been indoors. Eating enough to keep his body soft. Sleeping in safety while she had crowded into an abandoned building with a bunch of addicts just so she’d have a bit of warning if someone approached.
This goddamn motherfucker.
He seemed almost cheerful this morning, tilting his body to let others pass instead of checking them with his shoulder. Had he found another girl? Did they have a new little place that he visited on random nights? Was that what made him so fucking polite in the morning light?
A sharp turn to his right had her slowing her gait, and then she saw him step into a corner store. Camille stopped on the other side of a stoop a few doors down, keeping her eyes casually moving over the pedestrians, the crowded street in
“No, no, no, no. I’m out. I made it. NO!”
“ Yes …” a low voice hissed just behind her ear. She felt that rough palm over her mouth, and then she screamed as it pulled her down.
* * *
Camille sat up with a jerk, dim early morning light cascading through the gap in the curtains. In the hotel room. She was in Smith’s hotel room. In Smith’s bed.
She was out.
She’d made it out.
Her heart was racing in her chest, and her stomach heaved. She barely made it to the trash can next to the dresser, the carpet burning her knees as she threw up again and again. Sweat coated her skin, clammy with it, and she crawled across the floor until she found her gun on the nightstand. Hugging it to her chest as she took deep breaths. Breathe. Center. The memory of Smith’s voice was soothing as she moved air in through the nose, and out through the mouth. Slow and steady.
That had been the worst nightmare in months. Fucking hell.
Camille smacked the center of her forehead with her free hand, leaning back against the side of the bed as if the hard press of it could ground her in the reality where that particular nightmare was over, had been over for almost a year.
This was all because she’d stalked him down.
All because she’d done the right thing.
Watched him. Monitored his habits. Identified four separate places she could take him out without raising an eyebrow.
Now he was in her head again, back to the crippling nightmares that had always sent her clamoring for fresh air. Confirmation that she wasn’t still trapped, still the plaything of a bunch of monsters. She clenched her free hand tight, digging her sharp nails into her palm until she threatened to break the skin.
“Steve is already dead, you fucking know he’s dead, and today is the day Joe Wilson dies.” Camille swallowed and nodded to herself, flipping the safety of the gun on and off with practiced ease. “Today is the day Joe Wilson dies. Then there will be three. Three bastards until the nightmares stop. Three more until you’re fine.”
Chapter Five
Her stomach was still a knotted, empty mess as she followed him from half a block back, her gun tucked against her palm in the pocket of her hoodie. Finger off the trigger, just like Smith had taught her.
It will be today .
Camille breathed slow clouds in front of her, feeling the cold wind chap her cheeks into a reddened blush as she watched the baseball cap bob through the scattered people in front of her. Joe Wilson was walking with the kind of casual, head down stroll of a man with no enemies. If it were possible for her to hate him more, she did then. While she had been starving on the streets, doing all the fucked up things they had viciously taught her just so she could stay alive, he had been indoors. Eating enough to keep his body soft. Sleeping in safety while she had crowded into an abandoned building with a bunch of addicts just so she’d have a bit of warning if someone approached.
This goddamn motherfucker.
He seemed almost cheerful this morning, tilting his body to let others pass instead of checking them with his shoulder. Had he found another girl? Did they have a new little place that he visited on random nights? Was that what made him so fucking polite in the morning light?
A sharp turn to his right had her slowing her gait, and then she saw him step into a corner store. Camille stopped on the other side of a stoop a few doors down, keeping her eyes casually moving over the pedestrians, the crowded street in
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