Page 82 of Misery
Which, given recent history, isn't entirely wrong.
The bar's moderate tonight—not packed but busy enough that I can't dwell on Oskar's absence.
Regular Friday crowd mixing with a few unfamiliar faces.
The jukebox plays classic rock on repeat.
Someone's winning at pool, whooping every time they sink a ball.
Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
Except nothing feels safe anymore.
I check my phone again, texting Oskar like he asked:
All good here. Stop worrying.
His response is immediate:
Not worrying. Just checking. I’ll be a while.
Something about his messages feels off.
Too short. Too careful.
Like he's editing himself, removing information before hitting send.
The way my father used to text when club business got complicated.
But then again, club business is club business.
I learned long ago not to ask questions.
The earlier tension comes back to me—the way Oskar was gone from this morning to this evening, and then at dinner his phone rang and he was gone within minutes.
How his face changed, that careful blankness he gets when something's wrong but he doesn't want me to worry.
Runes’ name on the screen.
The clipped conversation I could only hear half of.
"Club emergency," he'd said. "Can't wait."
"What kind of emergency?"
"The kind I need to handle now." He'd kissed me then, harder than necessary. Like he was trying to memorize the feeling. "Stay here. Work your shift. Aren will watch you."
"I don't need?—"
"Please." The word cracked something in his control. "Just... please. Let Aren stay."
So I did. Because underneath his careful calm was something that looked like fear. And Oskar doesn't scare easily.
The door chimes. Another customer. I look up from the glass I'm drying, professional smile ready?—
And my blood turns to ice water.
Not because I recognize him.
