Page 33 of The Night Shift
A breeze coerces my body forward, causing me to jump. I burrow my chin into my chest for extra warmth and there’s a slight pause before Cami speaks again, “It’s okay if you are.”
“If I’m what?”
“Afraid,” she says. “It’s okay to be scared. But don’t ever show it. It’s dangerous to show fear.”
She’s right. Fear is for the weak. I can’t afford to show it. All it’s going to do is signal vulnerability. Showing fear is a confession of weakness, an admission of surrender.
“And besides,” Camille continues. “We’re in this together. Nothing is going to happen to you, Holly. You’re not alone.”
You’re not alone. The words send a ripple of reassurance down my spine. If this friend group was more of a “group” and less of a “duo,” Cami would be the designated “mom-friend.” The one who is always calm and collected in high-stress situations. Much like this one. She’s the one who would make sure you washed off your makeup before passing out after having too much to drink (been there, done that). Or help you dispose of a body on a Saturday night because no friend should have to do that alone (arethere,doingthat?). She’s much more than just my best friend.
I nudge her with my shovel. “I love you, you know that, right?”
Smiling, she simply shrugs. “You’d be insane not to.” Then she picks up her shovel and resumes the digging.
By the time we finish burying the body and Cami drives me back to my apartment, it’s almost four in the morning.
I punch in my access code and push the door open. My building has electronically coded locks on all apartment doors for added security, which is good because if tonight has taught me anything it’s that there are some real creeps out there.
I step inside and take off my shoes, sliding off my coat and hanging it on the rack next to the door.
Most days I’m operating at a normal surgeon level of tiredness. Yawns and eyelid twitches I feel to my core. But tonight, I can actually feel each one of my organs ache withexhaustion. My eyes burn and my bones hurt. I’m so glad I don’t have work tomorrow.
I turn on the shower, waiting for the steam to thicken the air, and grab a plastic bag from underneath the sink. I slip out of my jeans and top, leaving just my bra and underwear on.
Shit. I’m still supposed to meet Audrey at Cami’s bar tomorrow evening. I’m gonna have to come up with a stellar apology for not only “ruining” her clothes, but also mysteriously “losing” them.
Setting my bloody scalpel on the sink, I stuff the sweat-soaked clothes inside the bag to discard later, recalling the way Audrey smiled at me at the bar.
There was definitely something odd about her. Something uncanny. Everything about our interaction seemed a little too convenient to be just a coincidence. The way she just happened to be in the hospital and then the bar. The way she just happened to have a “spare outfit” that fit me almost perfectly. What if she’s the one sending me these messages? But why? What could she possibly want from me? I don’t even know who the hell she is. A maelstrom of emotions whips through me when I’m unable to come up with an answer. My mind is a tangled mess of unanswered questions.
Maybe Cami’s right. Maybe this is nothing. Maybe someone’s just trying to fuck with me. A prank. That’s all this is. A very fucked-up, not-so-funny prank. I need to stop thinking about it. Ignore it out of existence. Repress bad memories. Nothing I haven’t done before.
Drawing in a short breath, I run a hand over my tangled hair and slip one of my bra straps down my shoulder. I hear a noise.
I immediately poke my head out the bathroom door. “Hello?”
Nothing.
“Who’s there?”
Silence.
Quickly retrieving the bloody scalpel from the sink, I nab my phone and step outside, one tippy toe at a time. Darkness spills from the hallway as I brave through it, slowly making my way towards the kitchen. Half-naked and armed. My grip around my scalpel tightens as I enter the kitchen. I set my phone face down on the white granite countertop and comb through the area, before proceeding to the front door to check if it’s locked.
It is.
Clearly, there’s no one here other than me. Which basically means I’m going insane.
I walk back into the kitchen and grab the glass lying on my countertop. I “stole” that glass from April’s apartment last November. It was Thanksgiving and Theo and Parker wouldn’t stop calling me “Hollister” for an hour straight. I don’t remember much from that night due to the many, many glasses of wine, but I do remember thinking to myself that stealing is probably better than murdering my sister’s fiancé.
I fill the glass with water from the fridge dispenser and chug it in four swallows before refilling and emptying it again. I catch a glimpse of my phone out of my peripheral. Demon device. If that shit buzzes with another text message or worse, rings with a call, I swear to god, I’m going to lose my shit.
And then because the universe hates me, the damn phone fucking rings.
Every hair on the back of my neck stands.
I set the glass down, debating whether I should just let it go to voicemail or throw it out my window. But when the ringing doesn’t seem to stop, I reach for it and flip it over, and my apprehension immediately turns into barefaced confusion.
