Page 101 of Wicked Dreams

Ms. McCaw, my social worker, set me up with a therapist. The foster families I was with were terrified of the screaming that happened while I was asleep. And with the therapist, I convinced myself it was just a dream blown out of proportion.

But…

There are smudges of blood on the white door, at my chest level. Scratches, too.

I point at it. “What the hell happened?”

He watches me like I’m crazy. “You did that.”

I shake my head and sink down onto the bed. It’s either sit voluntarily or collapse—and then my visit would be cut short.

“That’s wrong,” I whisper.

I drag the pad of my finger over one of my nails. I couldn’t have scratched at the wood hard enough to leave those marks. I would’ve ripped my nails out. Whatever happened when I was ten… there’s no trace of it on my skin now.

He trails a finger over my dresser. He lifts something from it and tucks it away before I can get a good look.

At my raised eyebrows, he just rolls his eyes. “Just something of mine that you stole.”

“Why has no one come back here?”

He yanks the door open and points. “Time’s up. If you want me to explain exactly what happened… that’s another beast entirely. You’ll owe me more than a sloppy blow job.”

“So you do know.”

His nod is short and jerky. “I know pieces.”

“I know pieces, too.”

His expression is pitying. “Apparently not.”

This is a puzzle I’m trying to solve blind. But why am I so fucking blind? What happened that was bad enough for my brain to block it out?

Am I ever going to get it back?

Or, better yet, will I survive if it does come back?

A weight settles on my chest, and even though the door is open, those scratches are ingrained in my mind. The dreams of frantic pounding, screaming, breaking nails against paint. Confusion and anger.

“I can’t breathe.” I press my palm to my chest. “I think I’m h-having a p-panic attack.”

Caleb suddenly kneels in front of me. His face swims in my vision, concern drawing his brows together.

Or I’m delusional, and he’s just clinically fascinated.

“Hey. It’s okay.” His palms are hot on my cold skin.

I’m gasping for air at this point. My heart is pounding out of my chest.

“Margo.” Caleb’s voice breaks through the fog. Barely. “Look at me.”

I can’t really see anything except for the floor between my knees.

He tugs my hand away from my head—when did I grab my head?—and pinches my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Breathe.”

A whole damn waterfall of grief and confusion is thundering down on me. It’s the realization that my nightmares have been real. Caleb will never be nice, or tell me the truth, unless I give him something in return. My parents are gone.

He lifts me suddenly, cradling me to his chest, and starts walking. I suck in short gasps as the hallway melds into a living room, then a kitchen, and then suddenly we’re outside. The sun beats down on us, but it doesn’t touch the ice frosting over my skin.

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