Page 10 of Monstrous

I glance up at the statement. “Why do you say that?” I ask.

“Because if anything happened to my Bobby, I’d go out of my mind. Seven years later or not, I wouldn’t be able to work or hold it together,” Krista says smoothly. “You’re out here living your life. You always show up to work no matter what’s going on, you treat your customers and the rest of us behind the counter with respect, and you do it all while working on your mental health.” She blew out a breath. “I mean, wow, Mari. It’s a lot. You deserve a medal.”

Am I holding it together, though? I don’t think so. Where have I gotten myself in the last few years? I can get up and work, sure, she has a point there. But I haven’t been able to draw anything of note outside of my pages and pages of demon sketches.

Those damn demons hounding my mind and forcing my hand even through the fog.

“Every day is a struggle,” I admit. I poke around my salad, pushing the lettuce like boats through the sea of balsamic dressing. “Still. Even all these years later.”

“I bet! And here you are.”

I force a laugh that sounds strained even to me. Oof, yeah, I’ve got to get better at this kind of thing if I’m going to make it without my pills. “Yes, here I am.”

Krista points down to my food. “Look at you. I mean, you’re even eating a salad. You’ve got the health thing going on, girl. I tell you, I saw those pastries up there, and it’s taken everything inside of me not to buy a dozen of them and binge.”

“There’s still time. Maybe we can each grab one before we leave and it can be a little treat,” I say.

Her eyes light. “I’d like that.”

We are back at work an hour later and sadly I’m not feeling as confident as before. Maybe it’s one of those sliding spectrum things and I need to go easy on myself, but the moment we walked back through the door, my happy mood from the café slowly dropped back into neutral before sliding lower.

Grace and patience have never been my fortes though.

Determined to shake it off, I flash the girls another grin and open my teller window for business just as the bell above the front door dings to indicate our next customer. The grin remains in place until the first customer walks forward to greet me.

“Oh.”

I don’t mean for the word to slip out. A strange sense of unease rises inside of me the longer I look at him, although it’s almost impossible to place his face no matter how recognizable he looks.

He’s confused by my reaction but says kindly, “Hi. I’ve got some cash to deposit, please. If you’re busy then I can go to another teller?”

He must notice my reaction, of course. Because I’m acting really fucking weird and even I can see it. There’s just something about this guy that creeps me out on a gut, instinctive level. My grin frays around the edges when I finally muster it forward. “It’s absolutely fine, sir,” I tell him as I hold out my hands for his deposit. “I’m happy to help you this afternoon.”

Why does he seem so familiar to me?

I have never seen him before but something about him stands out to me in a way I can’t place. I must have seen him somewhere in the past. Not that I get out much. I’m always at home or here at the bank, so maybe I’ve waited on him before and just don’t remember? Seems strange though. I usually have a knack for faces.

My pulse races and my eyes dart down to the cash rather than looking at him. He hands me his account information and dammit, the name isn’t one I’m familiar with, either.

The last time I had a reaction like this—

My mind flashes back to the murder and the killer I hadn’t been able to see. I never got a good look at his face that night, but it definitely can’t be Mark Smith.

Because Mark Smith looks like your average guy. He’s got tousled brown hair the color of a roasted chestnut with a slight cowlick over his forehead. Blue eyes peek out from beneath the slight hint of bangs, and he’s got a dimple on his left cheek. A dimple.

Killers don’t have dimples, do they? I really have no clue, and since I’ve only got my own sense of anxiety to go on, that’s not saying much.The guy just has a creepiness about him. I highly doubt he can shift at will into a floating cloud of black sludge and slink in between buildings sucking the life out of people.

This isn’t a fucking fantasy world.

Or maybe my creep factor-o-meter is just completely broken.

My breathing shallow, I hurry to complete his transaction and shoot Mark Smith a happy grin so fake it gives us both cavities.

“Thank you for coming in, sir,” I say quickly. “I hope you have a lovely day.”

He smiles at me, nodding his head without returning the sentiment verbally. The air seems to clear the moment he steps out of the room, and I let out a breath. Okay, and my hands are totally shaking. What’s up with that?

I manage to make it through another thirty minutes before the anxiety is too much for me to bear. “I hope you don’t mind, Krista, but I need a little break.” I fan my face. “I’m not sure exactly what’s up with me but I don’t feel well all of a sudden. I’ve got to go outside.”

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