Page 106 of Nemesis

I don’t know.

I don’t know anything anymore.

My fight-or-flight instinct seems to be wired toflightthese days, because before I know it, I’m in motion. Grabbing the keys to Reese’s truck, my phone, my small bag. I didn’t even get a chance to take off my shoes, and small miracles for that.

I bolt. It’s late—I should be at Bow & Arrow anyway. When I get into Reese’s truck, I don’t pause to find out if someone has followed me.

Reese or Saint.

Are they fighting? Or laughing? Or…

I put the truck in gear and get the fuck out of the garage. The drive to Bow & Arrow is as easy as breathing, and I arrive in the blink of an eye.

No thought required. I park in the back and hop out, locking it. Once I’m in the stairwell, I pause. Instead of going up to my office, I go down.

Down to the old, blocked-off hallways with desecrated rooms. Where nightmares still linger and memories threaten to assault me.

Where the past is very much still alive.

I go to Terror to visit old ghosts.

There’s something wrong with me, and I need to fix it before it’s too late.

30ARTEMIS

I’m a liar.

I can’t go into Terror. I barely make it all the way down the stairs, and a creaking noise has merunning. I get to my office and slam the door shut behind me. I lean against it, my chest aching. I frantically try to catch my breath.

What iswrongwith me?

A knock reverberates through my back. I shift to the side and crack the door, peeking over my shoulder to see who it is.

Antonio.

He takes in my expression, whatever it holds, and the sternness fades from his eyes. Understanding replaces it.

How can he understand?

“Come,” he says, stepping back.

I turn and open the door the rest of the way. He goes into his office, and I drop into the seat across from him. I’ve done this many times, but this feels different.

“You went downstairs.”

My breath hitches.

“I had cameras installed after the bomb incident,” he says. “My notifications go off if they detect movement…”

“I went down there already. I was fine.”

He snorts. He pulls an electric kettle from a drawer in his desk and quickly sets it up. He pours water in, and while it boils he retrieves mugs. Tea bags. Honey. Miniature spoons. He sets everything up with calm efficiency, giving me the space to sit with those words.

The ones where I insist I wasfine.

“You’ve been living above Terror,” he says. “And for a decade, you’ve avoided it.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Isn’t it time to face those demons?”

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