Page 116 of Owen

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OWEN – ONE DAY LATER

Instantly awake, I’m dripping in a blast of freezing water at a temperature I can only imagine you endure in the Arctic.

“What the fuck?” I gasp for air like a fish out of water and wipe my water-covered face.

“Get up.” The voice of a man I can’t make out demands I move.

I blink several times, trying to focus on who is speaking.

A black figure stands before me.

Shit, am I dead? Is this the grim reaper coming to take me away?

Head pounding, mouth drier than sandpaper, I let out a groan.

“I said get up.” Death kicks me in the shin.

It can’t be death or I wouldn’t feel that, would I? Can you feel anything when you’re dead?

Because the hollow pain in my chest and damaged knuckles tell me otherwise: I am most definitely alive and still in the hell I can’t escape.

She’s gone.

My bleary eyes finally figure out who the man is standing in the living room of the home I no longer own.

“Knox?” I ask, confused why Lincoln’s father is here.

“Pull yourself together and meet me in the kitchen,” he says authoritatively, then leaves the living room.

“Shit.” I push myself up off the couch and stagger. My stomach flips. I feel sick and hot, although I’m shivering from the water I’m drenched in, assuming that’s what was in the black bucket now sitting empty on the floor.

I slide my phone off the coffee table and check my messages.

She’s missing.

Presumed dead.

On the brink of tears, I sway on my feet and rub my head, which feels as if it’s full of dust.

Having spent the last day self-medicating myself with liquor, drowning in my heartache, I realize no amount of whiskey could ever drink the ghost of her away.

She’s haunted every dream, every memory. My sorrow has now transformed into bone-deep despair.

Staggering into the kitchen, I find Knox.

His feet are crossed at the ankles, arms folded across his chest, leaning casually against the kitchen island.

“Hi,” I say sheepishly.

He holds back no punches, going for the jugular. “So, is this your new life plan, to drink yourself to death?”

“Seems like it,” I mutter, scrambling about the kitchen cabinets, trying to find a clean glass to fill with water.

I stay facing the sink but can feel his eyes burning through the back of my head as I down a glass full and heave as it hits my stomach, and then I vomit it all up.

I’m running on empty. My stomach aches and groans as it disagrees with my recent life choices.

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