Page 5 of Angel of Water & Shadow

I stumbled for the kickstand, slunk into the seat, and blindly reached into my cruiser’s front basket. As my consciousness began failing, my fingers locked around an item, its padded ends bent in my grasp. I thrust the headphones onto my head and hit play on the current track.

Outside of surfing, the noise-cancelling headphones were the greatest trick in my stash. They blocked out the world’s rising chaos until nothing existed but me, and only me, along with the music, and I actually stood a chance at making it through the day. I kicked my heels into the pedals and recalibrated my senses while the Voices faded out and my playlist faded in.

Chapter 2

I dropped into the patched leather chair beside the prison-style barred windows, the olive peasant dress I’d changed into during a quick pitstop at home catching on my beige high tops as I crossed my feet. As I bent down to adjust the fabric, a chill plucked a shiver from me. Even with the leafy greenery and lavender scent sticks and crocheted pillow behind me, the room still felt as cold and unhospitable as a jail cell.

My fingers tapped the armrests as the rhythmic splash of water striking tin rooftops filled my ears, despite the cloudless sky. I’d swapped out my indie rock playlist for a nature soundtrack after the Voices succumbed to the catchy soprano. My world and their words muted by the husky vocals, the riffing harmonica, and some of my own scream singing. Which I definitely belted out in public more than a few times on my way here.

Whatevs. I’d been heard shouting much worse.

My throat seemed to prickle at the thought. I brought my fingers to the tender nodes below my jaw, applying a light, circular, pressure. Swollen. From stress, or too much fighting with things that weren’t even really there.

I clipped out a sigh. I didn’t hate the Voices. But the Voices weren’t real. It was just my mind using the world against me, bending the sounds and shapes and tastes and smells so I was forced to hear nothing but the sarcastic outbursts of the first, the silky views of the second, the harsh truths of the third… and their appeals to revisit a decade-old memory—something I was expected to do by everyone, it seemed. But I wouldn’t touch with a hundred-foot pole.

At the brusque click-clack of heels, I pulled the headphones from my ears, resting them around my neck.

A woman observed me through thin, round tortoiseshell frames as she took a seat in the chair opposite me. Her big brown eyes glittered with curiosity like a California sea lion, behind bangs of raven ringlets. As she rolled her shoulders a shadow vaulted behind her, its tip grazing the ceiling before folding in on itself.

Ah, another new one.

Despite my surprise, I wouldn’t let myself so much as shift a toe and accidentally reveal my frustration. I also wouldn’t let myself linger on how much younger and prettier she was than anyone else I’d met with—she couldn’t have been more than ten years older than me—or how she had one of those outwardly kind faces that looked warm, familiar, even though I’d never met her before.

I returned the look, waiting for her to make the first move. I didn’t just give it up for free. That I’d learned the hard way, thanks to her lovely colleagues, who’d made me feel like my truths were part of a well-crafted sob story. The ones I felt like telling them, anyway.

If it were up to me, we’d spend the whole hour in an epic stare down.

Maybe then I’d be taken seriously.

My opponent broke first, in unknown defeat. “It’s nice to meet you, River. I’m Doctor Fairmore.”

I couldn’t mask my satisfied smirk.

She fiddled with the silver medallion she wore around her neck, embossed with an angel blowing a trumpet. “I’m going to be taking over for Doctor Churchill, as you two discussed on Tuesday.”

Right…I must’ve glazed over that part. As I now did with Fairmore’s background, her accolades, and whatever personal details she’d shared—something about her goddaughter?—zoning out until I heard, “But enough about me. Do you have any questions, or is there a specific topic you’d like to start with?”

Her patience seemed authentic enough. Still, I clipped out, “No.”

A pen clicked. “Let’s talk about what’s on your mind right now. What are you thinking about, River?”

My fingers twirled in my lap as the tip of the pen scratched against a fresh sheet of paper. I blew out an uneven breath as my ankle started shaking, and the nervous energy overtook me.

I turned towards the window and met my own bitter stare, the curl of my lip and the deep line between my brows giving away what I wouldn’t say.

From somewhere in the room, I heard the faint hint of a murmur, even though the walls were thick and practically soundproof. It caught on the passing summer breeze and rattled my nerves like the gentle wind did the glass in the windowpane.

“I’m thinking about the surf.” Not a complete lie—five seconds ago my tidal watch had started flashing over the epic wave height along the Santa Cruz coastline. Plus, I needed to say something before the murmur turned into a voice and the voice turned into the entire room shouting at me.

My new doctor clasped her hands over her camel-colored pencil skirt. “Why are you thinking about that?”

“’Cause I like surfing.” Duh. “And I’d way rather be doing that…” I added under my breath.

She pursed her lips, the muscles in her face tightening as she narrowed her eyes.

I met her glare dead on, waiting for her wrath—there had to be a punishment for being so cavalier about everything. A monster had to be behind the mask of that round, rose-tinged ebony face. One capable of complete cognitive destruction.

After an insufferable moment of scrutiny, her expression shed some of its firmness. “How long have you been surfing?”

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