Page 115 of Shattered Promise

But I love you. I have for as long as I can remember.

xo—A

I read it again. Then a third time, slower.

There’s something else inside the envelope. A little plastic white wand with a pink cap. I flip it over and stare at the pink happy face with the wordpregnant, dumbfounded for a full minute. My brain refuses to slot the pieces together for a full beat.

Then it does, and the nausea rolls up from my gut and through my throat—sharp and electric, nothing like the slow, dull ache I’ve been floating in. My vision blurs at the corners, like my body’s trying to reject the rush of feeling crashing through it.

“Oh fuck,” I mutter, panic clawing at the edges of my consciousness. “Where are you, Abby?”

44

ABBY

The first thingI register is the smell.

Cherries and vanilla. It hits like a fist, not because it’s unfamiliar, but because itis. It smells exactly like my shampoo.

My head aches in a dull, radiating throb. The back of my skull pulses, tender to the touch. When I try to move, something tugs at my wrists. Soft, but secure.

I blink, my vision slow to settle, and everything comes into focus in strange pieces.

The pale blue walls. A gallery wall of candid photos of me, Theo, and Mason. Some individuals, some of us together. Some look like they’re taken from far away, the quality pixelated.

The couch and coffee table I had in my apartment in Seattle.

My pulse skids. I lift my head, slow and careful, and see the rest of the living room. There’s my old chenille throw, draped just so across the loveseat. A chipped mug with a lipstick print on the rim. My favorite candle—fig and cedar—burns low on the coffee table. The flame is so small, it might be dying.

My brain can’t make sense of it. I’m in a memory that’s been badly photoshopped. Everything is mine, but the light is wrong.The air is too thick, humid with something that isn’t fog or fear, but is made of both.

I shift again, testing the give of whatever’s holding my arms.Scarves, I realize after a blink. The silk ones I bought cheap at that consignment shop last spring. There’s something both theatrical and deeply humiliating about it. My own scarves, tied in bows at my wrists. For a second, I’m too stunned to even panic.

But the sharp tug underneath my wrists isn’t silk. It’s plastic—hard, serrated, and biting into skin that is already raw. Zipties. The scarves are just a costume, camouflaging the plastic restraints anchoring me to the arm of the chair. The realization lands like a slap and the panic rushes in, hot and sour.

I twist, jerking my arms, but the zipties barely flex. The effort makes my head swim, a black curtain tugging at the edges of my vision. I blink it back, fighting to make sense of what I see.

But my brain isn’t computing what I see across the room.

There’s a woman in front of a full-length mirror, similar to the one at Nana Jo’s cabin.

And she’s wearing my favorite white sundress with the button-bodice-style top I wore to the lake with Mason last month. The hem floats just above her knees as she turns in front of the mirror, holding a coffee mug to her lips.

Her hair is curled like mine, falling in loose waves over her shoulders. There’s a mug in her hand, which might actuallybemy coffee mug from the looks of it, and she takes a sip.

“You didn’t have to do that, Mason,” she says softly, to her own reflection. “But thank you.” She laughs, too sharp, too forced.

She sighs and drops her shoulders, letting the mug dangle from her fingertips. Liquid drips onto the floor, but the woman doesn’t seem to notice.

Then I watch as she sets the mug down and straightens her shoulders again, her face twisting into a strange-looking smile. It’s too big for her face, her cheeks pulled too tight.

“I made muffins for you, honey. Blueberry is still your favorite, right?” she practically purrs before trying the laugh again. This time it sounds worse than before.

The woman grunts and the emotion drops from her face like someone splashed it away. She stomps her foot and yells, “Dammit. I need the video, Bethy.”

My heart hammers so hard I can feel it in my throat.

What the fuck is going on?

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