Page 26 of Sniper's Pride

She scrambled to sit up, confused when she realized she was still dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, even her socks. Her hair was down, hanging all around her like a wavy curtain, and her stomach lurched threateningly when she moved.

At almost the same instant a terrible pounding in her temples set in.

She looked around wildly until she saw the vague shape of her bag on the chair next to the bed. Then, on the bedside table, a glass of water, two red tablets, and the cell phone Griffin had taken from her in the café.

It all came back at once. This was another hotel room. No different from any of the other hotel rooms she’d found herself in over the last few days. She’d woken up like this—if less ill—every night, never knowing where she was. Or what was happening. Or why she was halfway into a panic attack, like her throat was closing up again.

You’re in Grizzly Harbor,she told herself. In a bright blue inn set up in a pretty postcard of a nearly inaccessible Alaskan island town.

Mariah lay her hand against her throat and breathed. Because she could. Because she was alive.

She was in Alaska, not Atlanta, and she was still alive.

Eventually, the flush of panic dimmed. She shoved the weight of her hair away from her face, not sure why she could feel every single strand like straight torture against her scalp. That was new. And unpleasant.

Her mouth felt like a truck had backfired into it repeatedly, then run her over a few times for good measure. As her panic faded away she felt sicker, and half crawled, half pulled herself over to the side of her bed so she could pick up the tablets and wash them down.

She could remember Griffin, standing there beside the bed with a hint of thunder on his face and his surprisingly kind hands, ordering her to drink the glass down. She followed his orders, but the more water she drank, the more she remembered.

And for a ghastly moment she was afraid that she might actually throw up.

It could have been what was left of all the alcohol careening around inside her. Or it could have been the thick heat of shame. She had the impression of her own voice, too bright and too loud, and her brain helpfully supplied images of her relatives’ drunken shenanigans all those years ago, in case she was in any doubt as to how she must have appeared.

Sloppy and embarrassing. Trash straight through, as David had always hissed at her at parties.

This was what you wanted,she reminded herself sternly.You climbed up on that trash can, set it on fire, and settled in for the night.

There was no use crying over spilled tequila now.

Even if she had made a pass at her freezing cold, completely unamused, brand-new bodyguard. Or whatever the hell he was to her.

Mariah’s stomach lurched again at that unfortunate memory, but there was nothing to be done about it now. She squinted at the clock and saw that it was nearly three thirty in the morning. Everything felt worse at three thirty in the morning. It was an hour of shame and regret, and in all likelihood, things would seem a lot rosier in the daylight.

She slipped from the bed, feeling the room spin around her unpleasantly as her feet hit the ground. Herstomach was iffy and her head kept pounding, but she hobbled into the bathroom anyway, thinking that her usual nightly routine might make her feel better.

And maybe it was that, or maybe it was the tablets Griffin had left her. But by the time she crawled into bed again, this time without all her clothes on, it seemed possible she might actually live.

Shame didn’t actually kill a person. It only felt like it would. She’d learned that lesson again and again in her years of never being good enough in her marriage. She supposed this was one more golden opportunity to learn that same lesson.

She shut her eyes, congratulated herself on living through another evening, and tried to celebrate with some deep breaths.

And that was when she heard it.

A faint rattling noise. Soft at first, but insistent.

Her eyes flew open and she stared up at the ceiling, holding her breath. Because if she wasn’t mistaken—and of course she was mistaken, she had to be mistaken—it sounded like there was someone at her door.

She sat up in a rush, staring across the dark room. She heard the noise again, that faint rattle of metal against metal—a lot like a doorknob sounded when it was turned by an impatient hand.

Mariah slid out of the bed again, wishing she hadn’t changed out of her jeans and socks, because she felt chilled straight through as she tiptoed across the floor.

“You’re dreaming,” she whispered to herself. “You’ve had this same bad dream all week.”

She reached down and pinched her thigh, viciously, until tears blurred her vision. And even in the dark, shecould see a bruise begin to form. She stood as still as possible, one hand on the thigh she’d just abused, then held her breath and stared at the door.

For a moment everything was silent. Relief flooded her, because she was clearly dreaming—

But then she heard it. Again. And the tiny creaking sound of old floorboards bowing beneath somebody’s feet, right outside her door.

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