Epoch (Transcend Duet #2)(71)

“A little Xanax as needed might be a good fit after all.” She holds up a finger. “Prescription pad is in my office, give me a quick sec.”

Fisting my hand at my mouth, I nod. That wasn’t a finer moment for me.

Dr. Albright sends me home with a “chin up” and a prescription that I’m only supposed to take if absolutely necessary.

After checking the backseat, I pick up my prescription and drive home. What if I never remember? I didn’t really think that hard about it being a possibility. I don’t have a plan B. There was only plan A.

I call my mom as soon as I walk in the door and deadbolt it behind me. What if he’s in here? Hiding in the closet. Behind the shower curtain? The hypnosis not working today has messed with my mind. It’s skyrocketed my paranoia.

My mom doesn’t answer. I open the little white bag and pull out the bottle of pills. Maybe I just need sleep. But who will protect me if I fall into a deep sleep and don’t wake up when he breaks into my house?

For safe measure, I grab another knife out of the drawer and slip it into my back pocket. Maybe I should call Sherri and Scott. No … what if they tell Griffin. I don’t want him to know how fucked-up I am right now. He’ll feel bad and rush back to save me. One of the reasons he left was to avoid watching me self-destruct.

Fuck! That’s what’s happening.

I have a bottle of Xanax in my hand and a knife in my pocket.

A bottle of Xanax and a knife.

Setting my phone on the kitchen table so my mom thinks I’m here, I open the door and go back to my car with nothing more than my purse, a knife, and a bottle of Xanax.

It’s a little past two in the afternoon. Most of the world is still working, with the exception of some college students relishing the last day of winter break. Dougly Fucking Creepy Mann is a night owl. It’s possible he’s not even out of bed. Erica used to roll her eyes at his odd hours, which coincided quite well with her manic hours at the hospital.

I park on a side street two blocks away from the apartment building. Pulling up my hood and slipping on sunglasses, I trek to the building. Without a key, I can’t get through the main door. And I don’t want to announce my arrival to the man I’m going to visit. So I hang out by the door for a few minutes and, sure enough, someone walks out of the building.

“Oh thank God,” I murmur just loud enough for her to hear me, keeping my chin tucked to my chest while riffling through my purse. “Stupid key always gets lost at the bottom and it’s cold as the arctic out here. Thank you.”

“No problem,” the lady says while holding open the door for me.

In spite of the arctic temperatures, a few beads of sweat trickle down my back as I climb the stairs. Each step robs a little more oxygen from my lungs, the weight of what I’m about to do bearing down on my chest. My pulse pounds out of control, making it impossible to hear anything but the whisper of fear.

I stop for a moment and stare at my old apartment door. After a few breaths, I turn the corner and ascend the final set of stairs. My eyes stay focused on his door. If I glance right, at Erica’s door, I will lose it.

When my shaky fist raps on his door, my heart attempts to break out of my chest. He killed Erica.

I knock again.

He killed Daisy.

I knock a little harder.

He’s been taunting me.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

I think I could tear down this door. My plans to drug him before stabbing a knife through his heart could get derailed by the revenge running through my veins. When he opens the door, I’m going to have a hard time not skipping the drugging part. All I want to do is kill him.

“Miss? I think you might have the wrong apartment.”

I jump at the unfamiliar voice wafting down the stairs from the floor above.

“No,” I say curtly, turning my back to the middle-aged gentleman taking his final step to the landing behind me.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Miss, I hate to be the one to break the news to you, but Mr. Mann committed suicide several days ago.”

My fisted hand stills on the door, leaving my adrenaline-fed panting as the only sound in the stairwell.

“What?” I inch my head round, eyeing him over my shoulder.

The messy blond-haired gentleman zips his coat, nodding. “Hung himself. Landlord found him when he went in there to fix a plumbing issue that Mr. Mann had reported the week before.” He slips on his gloves. “My condolences if you knew him, miss.”

My feet remain rooted in their spot as the man makes his way to the lower level.

Doug’s dead.

*

After a numbing drive home and a Xanax, I sleep for ten hours. The drug doesn’t last that long, but peace of mind worked synergistically with it. I wake with a residual numbness. It’s like someone knocked my puzzle on the floor and I may never get all the pieces back in their right spot, but maybe it doesn’t matter.

I sit on the edge of the bed, missing the body that used to lie bedside me. After staring at my phone screen for a few minutes, I message Griffin.

Me: Doug is dead.

The message says undelivered.

I resend.

Undelivered again.

I shouldn’t call him. His voice would render me a sobbing mess. If he’s not getting the message, maybe if I called it would just go to his voicemail anyway. I hope.

My pulse begins to surge like it did yesterday at Doug’s door. What if Griffin answers? After a few minutes of playing chicken with myself, I press call.