Page 87 of On a Fault Line

I just allow the experience to take over me.

Time passes, and the golden rays of the sun move forward into the horizon, casting a warm glow to everything it touches.

There’s something special about this time of the day.

When the adrenaline surrounding the photoshoot wears off, the water sloshing around my calves feels a little bit cooler. The air a little less balmy.

I scan the crowd and then?—

No.

I blink.

But he’s still there…

Mark Tanner.

Snippets of memories flash across my vision, like marbles rolling around in a box.

Mark Tanner is here.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to eradicate my mind from the ghost of him.

He’s in prison. I confirmed he was there. And he’s still rotting away behind bars.

He was the promise keeper for me becoming something in the modeling world.

And I was the catalyst that eventually brought him to his knees.

His face darkens in the recesses of my mind, and a sinister laugh escapes. I feel a chill running up my legs, working its way to my arms.

“Penny?”

Hands grab me, and I crumble into the water’s current, allowing the coldness to soak entirely into the clothes I’m here to model.

“I need help,” I whisper.

I will always need help.

The memory of the monster is a disease waiting for the most inappropriate time to declare war on me.

“How can I help?” Gino asks, hesitant to touch me, probably worried to set me off even more.

My shoulders curl forward, trying to wrap myself into a cocoon of safety.

I dare not look back at the crowd.

Chills run up my arms.

“Let’s get you dried off.”

I don’t blame Gino for being afraid. I’m even afraid of myself sometimes. The guilt is extreme, knowing that my bad judgment of character in Mark Tanner has had my brothers risking their lives to exact revenge on the whole drug ring. What I thought I had healed from is really just an illusion.

“Don’t tell Angie or Claire,” I whisper. First freaking day on the job, and I already have made a fool of myself. Maybe I’m not ready to be back in front of a camera. Maybe I am just as broken as I was the night that Mark shattered the belief I had inside that some men can be decent humans. “Please.” My voice cracks with my plea. This is so embarrassing.

“Miss Hoffman, are you okay?”

It’s Chris. He’s here.

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