Page 186 of Deliverance

Great. Just my luck.

Another ping.

“Fuck.” With a groan, I sit up, then bring my feet down to the floor and test my strength. My knees wobble a little at first, but after a few laughable attempts to keep myself in a vertical position, I get my body to listen.

There’s a long string of calls and messages flashing at me from the screen of my phone when I pick it up. All of them are from Ian, and I’m tempted to simply pretend he doesn’t exist and continue to wallow. It’s been a long time since I’ve thrown myself a pity party and this occasion seems as good as any.

My train of thought is interrupted by yet another call.

“I’m hungover and not in the mood,” I snap at my manager.

“Did you see the screenshots I sent you?” he asks, ignoring my unpleasant disposition. There’s something in his voice that causes my flesh to rise. Goosebumps riddle my arms and back.

“No.” I draw my phone from my ear and put it on speaker.

“I need you to look at them right now.” Ian’s words, touched by a bit of static, fill the entire bedroom and slither across the walls, heavy and dangerous.

“I’m looking.” I exit the call and pull up my messages.

For a second, my vision blurs and I have to narrow my eyes and focus on the images of the choppy sentences that are cramming my Instagram inbox.

“Zander?” Ian calls out. “Tell me this is a joke?”

My pulse jumps, raw, unstable emotions suddenly clawing at my insides. “I don’t think so,” I choke out. “I’ve met this girl.” My tongue feels thick and useless. “She helps Drew…at the studio.”

“Do you want me to involve the authorities?”

I’m too freaked out to react properly. Instead, I just linger there, my gaze sweeping over the room and catching sight of the digital clock on the nightstand.

It reads 1:27 p.m.

I don’t even remember the last time I slept past noon.

“Zander?” Ian shouts over the traffic noise in background.Where the fuck is he, anyway? A train station?“Do you want me to involve the authorities?”

“No…I mean…I don’t know. Let me call her first.”

“Okay, but I simply want to make sure you know what you’re doing and that she’s not one of those nutjobs.”

“I know the girl. Just give me a second.” Gritting my teeth, I kill the call and log into my Instagram. Apart from me, Ian’s the only other person with access to my account and he’s also the one who weeds through comments and messages twice a week. Sometimes, there are threats and sometimes there are photos of body parts I don’t need to see from women who claim they’re my soulmates.

Social media can be funny like that.

I don’t think I move for a whole minute, maybe even two, as I scan a long, panicked string of DMs from @downtherabbitholefrom818.

When the tiny letters blur beneath my gaze, I realize that my head is spinning and regret all the alcohol I consumed last night, because I can’t seem to concentrate on the task at hand—figuring out what’s going on.

Call Drew. Call Drew. Call Drew.

She doesn’t pick up. All I get is voicemail.

My breath begins to roar in my ears.

“Hello?” a low female voice greets me after aring-ring-ringand aclickwhen I dial the number from the DM.

“Preston?” I clarify.

The entire world seems to have silenced as if waiting with me.

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