Page 11 of Inferno

“Well, I’ll, uh, let you go. Have a nice day, Ms. Daniels.” He levels his gaze on me again, and the grin that spreads across his face is… odd. “Be safe.”

He starts to walk toward the store but then weaves through the rows and heads to the back of the lot.

What the actual fuck?

Thinking he must have forgotten something in his car, I shrug and press the trunk button on my key fob. After loading my purchases into the back, I put the cart into the buggy return area and climb into the driver’s seat.

I’m so focused on getting situated that I don’t notice the piece of paper tucked under the windshield wiper blade until after backing out of the space and putting the car in drive.

Rolling my eyes, I roll the window down and snag the paper before throwing it onto the passenger seat without looking to see what it is. It doesn’t take me long to get home, the paper forgotten until I finish putting my groceries away and go back into the garage to retrieve my purse.

Unease washes over me when I read the handwritten note.

You can run but you can’t hide. I’ll always find you.

Run? Hide? From whom?

I think back to the odd encounter with Jack but dismiss the idea that the note is from him pretty quickly. He’s a trauma survivor. I highly doubt he’d voluntarily inflict trauma onto someone else.

Chalking the note up to a prank, I toss it in the trash and push it out of my mind. There will always be stupid people in the world, and I refuse to let them get the better of me.

Glancing at the time on the microwave, I realize I’ve only got a few minutes before my first online therapy session. I race to my bedroom to change out of my yoga pants and t-shirt and into jeans and a mint green sweater that’s more appropriate for a therapist.

Once I’m in my office, I pull up the online meeting dashboard and log into the session. My client is already waiting for me.

“Hi,” she says, ducking her head and picking at her nails.

“Hi, Celeste,” I greet. “How are you today?”

“Been better,” she mutters.

Her voice is so low that I can barely hear her, but that’s normal for this particular client so I turn the volume all the way up on my computer.

“I can see you’re upset,” I say gently. “Did something happen?”

She doesn’t respond for a long moment, and then she lifts her eyes to mine. “I had to call off work today.”

“Okay. How come?”

Celeste proceeds to tell me that she had a bad night with her anxiety, and she didn’t feel she’d get through an entire shift at the ER without breaking down. She’s a nurse and has to be ready for anything at all times when she’s on the clock. Unfortunately, she was attacked by a patient in the hospital parking garage, and work has become a trigger for her PTSD.

Over the last few months, she’s been making great progress, but trauma has a way of sneaking up on a person.

“Did your boss understand?” I ask when she stops talking.

Celeste nods. “Of course. He’s always very nice about it when I have to call off.”

“That’s good.”

“It is, but how long will that last? If I can’t do the job, they’re going to eventually have to replace me,” she frets.

She’s not wrong. But Celeste is a great nurse, and her patients love her.

Most of them anyway.

Finding another job would be a piece of cake. I’m just not sure it’s the best thing for her if it’s going to cause so much anxiety.

“One thing at a time, Celeste,” I remind her. “Let’s talk about your anxiety and what triggered it last night and today.”

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