Page 8 of Curse

My voice wavers. “This is none of your fucking business.”

I try to keep my tone low and sharp the way he speaks to me, but my voice fractures at the edges. I’m a breath away from hysteria. I know he hears it, and that knowledge throws a layer of shame on top of the shitty stew of emotions boiling inside me.

Maybe he sees my distress, takes pity on me, because he lets me wrench free from his grasp. My movements are jerky and uncoordinated as I stumble backward away from him and pivot to head back toward the parking lot.

The dock creaks underfoot, the boards uneven beneath me. The truck is in sight, Emily’s things still in its bed, and my pulse pounds with every step.

Matti doesn’t follow me, but I sense him. His eyes burn into my back, heavy and unyielding. The tension anchors me like a leash, tethering me to him, and a sick tangle of fear mixed with comfort wraps around me.

I’m terrified he’ll stop me, and yet oddly steadied by the knowledge that he’s watching.

By the time I get to the truck, Officer Clifton is back down by the water’s edge, yelling to the driver of a motorboat idling a few feet off shore.

I slip around to the far side of the truck, the cab between me and Officer Clifton. My pulse thuds in my ears, but I move as quickly as I can.

Peering into the truck bed, my breath catches. Emily’s things are scattered in the bins, each one a painful reminder of her: the scarf I tried to grab earlier, her phone, the infamous makeup case with its maze of zippers, a brush twisted and melted at the edges.

The makeup case is wedged in a bin overflowing with other bits of her life, and it’s all I can reach so I grab it first, clutching it to my chest. The vinyl is hard at the edges, not wet as I expected, and it digs into my ribs as I try to shove it under my shirt. It bulges awkwardly, impossible to hide. Cursing under my breath, I let it drop to the ground with a soft thud.

The scarf and phone are in bags farther back. Though my heels add some height to my 5’ 3” frame, it’s not nearly enough for me to reach them over the jacked up tires. I have no choice but to haul myself up and balance on my stomach on the rim of the truck bed, my feet dangling inches off the ground.

The bins are just within reach. I stretch, my arm trembling as I grab for the scarf first, then her phone, my nails brushing the surface of the screen. The hum of the motorboat cutsthrough the air, growing fainter, and since I don’t know if Officer Clifton got on the boat or not, panic tightens in my chest.

I’m out of time.

I grab blindly, pulling out whatever I can—plastic bags full of small items that I don’t take the time to look through—but I make sure to get her scarf and phone, hugging all of it in my arms awkwardly.

Wriggling off my perch on the edge of the truck bed, I drop to the ground, my knees buckling slightly on impact, my heels sinking into the dirt. The makeup case waits at my feet, and I scoop it up, fumbling as I try to balance it along with everything else. My arms strain to hold everything, but I force myself to move, every step a race against time.

When I sneak a peek over the heap in my arms, I want to vomit. Matti stands where the dock meets the dirt, less than thirty yards away, his eyes locked on me. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word—just watches. His expression is unreadable, a mask I can’t crack, and the uncertainty churns in my chest.

Is he about to come after me? Stop me? Or is he going to let me go?

The tension thickens, taut like a wire, our silent standoff suspending an electric charge between us that makes my cheeks flush. My heart pounds as I hold his gaze, daring him to make a move.

When he doesn’t, a satisfied smirk pulls at the corners of my mouth as I take a step backward, the gravel crunching under my heels.

He tilts his head slightly, one dark brow arching. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement, maybe? Nota smile, though; I’m not sure he knows how. No, this look is sharper, like he’s accepting an unspoken challenge. Still, he doesn’t move.

The tension snaps, and instinct takes over. Without thinking, I pivot on my toes, careful to keep my heels from sinking into the dirt, and sprint for my car. The pile of Emily’s things jostles in my arms, threatening to spill, but I don’t stop. My pulse thunders in my ears.

When I get to the car, I can barely grasp the handle with my arms full, but I manage to rip the door open and fall into the driver’s seat.

Emily’s belongings spill onto the passenger seat as I slam the door shut. I fumble with the keys for way too long, but finally shove them into the ignition with a trembling gasp.

Gravel spits and wheels screech as I back out and then whip onto the gravel path leading back to the paved road, a cloud of dust kicking up behind me. The rearview mirror reflects nothing but haze, Matti swallowed up by the swirl of dirt, and I jam my foot on the gas pedal, willing myself to stay focused on the road ahead.

**

Hours later, I am still racing down the road, the dashboard rattling, wind whistling through the doors. I take the highway this time to avoid getting accosted on abandoned back roads and keep checking my rearview mirror, expecting at any moment to see a police car with lights flashing or Matti whatever-his-last-name-is coming to take back what I stole.

When the adrenaline rush dissipates, I can’t get Matti out of my mind. The way he watched me, the warmth of his hand onmy arm, the strength of his arm around me when he stopped me from attacking the officer—it’s unsettling. Every time my thoughts creep back to him, my heart rate spikes.

Is it his power that has me responding like this? The fact that he helped me out with Clifton? That it’s his job to find out what happened to Emily?

The one thing throwing me off is his suit. It was the kind of suit that Mikey, Emily’s husband, would wear. Expensive, sharp, perfectly tailored. Not the cheap suits that the NYPD detectives wear when I’ve had to work with them in the past at the Victim Advocacy Center.

Maybe detectives in the south are different. Hopefullyhe will focus his attention on figuring out what happened to that plane, though, and forget about me.

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