Page 57 of The Fine Line
“I know we had a deal,” I say quietly. “But I just wanted to make sure?—”
“How do you do it?” she interrupts, glancing up at me, glassy-eyed. “Why are you always here?”
She taps her fingers against her temple, like she’s trying to knock the thought loose.
My brows pull together.
“I don’t?—”
She cuts me off, lurching forward with another wave of nausea.
“Don’t look at me,” she groans.
“Okay,” I say gently. “I won’t.”
But I never take my eyes off her.
fourteen
CAROLINE
My senses aren’t working properly. All I can hear is bass thumping louder and louder. The walls are shaking. The room is spinning. And it’s so dark I can’t see a thing.
I turn and press against something soft. I try to lift my head, but it feels like it weighs a hundred pounds. I squint—or try to—but my eyes won’t open. They feel cemented shut. It takes everything I have to pry one open, and harsh light slices through my vision, sending pain straight through my skull.
I let out a breath and try to push up on my elbows, but a wave of nausea knocks me back onto the plush, unfamiliar surface.
“What the hell?” I mutter, my mouth dry as sandpaper.
I rub at my eyes, then rip off the metaphorical band-aid and force myself to sit up. I blink several times, trying to process what I’m seeing—then go completely still.
I have no idea where I am.
My bleary gaze sweeps across an all-white bedroom. For a second, I wonder if it’s a hospital. But no—it’s too warm, toocurated. Pottery Barn furniture. A cozy reading nook. A salt lamp glowing on the nightstand.
I sit up fully, groaning as a skull-splitting ache pulses behind my eyes. I clutch a fistful of my hair and wait for it to pass. When I open my eyes again, I notice something I missed before.
There’s a lit candle on the nightstand. And next to it, a steaming cup of coffee.
My spine stiffens as the white comforter slips down my chest. That’s when I notice what I’m wearing.
It’s definitely not the white pantsuit from last night.
I’m in an oversized black cotton t-shirt I don’t recognize. There’s some graphic and text on the front. I start to tug the fabric to read it—but a noise cuts me off.
It’s coming from the next room. Through a cracked door.
I freeze, heart lurching. After a few seconds of silence, I wrap the comforter tighter around myself and slide off the bed.
I try to tiptoe toward the door, but my foot catches on something. I look down—my clothes from last night.
I slap a hand to my forehead. “Goddammit, Caroline. What did you do?”
The sink turns on in the next room.
I move beside the door, pulse racing, then slowly tilt my head to peek through the crack.
And my stomach drops.
