Page 24 of The Shadowed Oracle
Ingrid was the only one who seemed the slightest bit perturbed by any of this. She had a guess at that, and yet another deep feeling crept up, but she wanted to get to her feet before she tackled anything else.
“You gonna help me?” she asked curtly.
“Oh, sorry.”
Dean stood and offered his hand, lifting her to her feet and letting her get her balance with her arm around his. He glanced back at her for just a moment, that same excitable look in his eyes.
“What?” she asked instinctively. “Am I bleeding again?”
“No, no…” Dean shook his head, averting his eyes. “You’re good.”
Once she found her bearings, they took slow steps toward her front door. There was no pain now, only numbness. Most of her weight was relying on Dean’s large frame, but she managed tostop herself when she was just feet away from the entrance to her apartment.
Just a few more steps until she was home.
“You alright?’ Dean asked again.
Her answer was purely internal at first.No. She wasn’t alright. She was far from it, and she didn’t know when she might be alright again. If ever.
“This isn’t,” she started to say, breaking off as a jolt of pain went through her back. “This isn’t my home.”
“It is,” Dean replied softly. “You’re just a little hazy.”
“No—no, it isn’t.” She stared intently at her door, at the bland off-white paint, the tarnished bronze knocker and knob. Itwashers. But in the ways that mattered most, it had changed. Everything had changed. Just like the Thing had violated her mind, the memory of it had now poisoned her home.
She jerked away from Dean, stomped toward the door that was once hers, then twisted the key and darted directly into the bedroom.
“Feeling better already!?” Dean called out to her, standing in the doorway.
“Huh!?” The sound of her suitcase being ripped out of her closet made it difficult to hear him.
“I said, are you feeling better already?!”
“Hold on, I—" She continued rummaging around in her dresser for the essentials, tossing both washed and unwashed garments in her bag until her closet was nearly empty. There wasn’t much to begin with. She appreciated nice clothing, owned a few expensive dresses, a few vintage coats, but for the most part had no use for them. Ninety percent of her wardrobe fit in her rolling, hard-side suitcase; her toiletries were stored in the pockets at the top; her handgun and her concealed carry license stashed away in her purse; and lastly, she wrapped the amberand gold necklace her father gave her around her neck and hurriedly rushed back out into the hallway.
Dean followed. “Where are we going?”
“I’mgoing to a hotel. You and that cop outside are going home. I’ve disrupted your lives enough as it is.” She was back at the elevator now, staring at the buttons a moment before thinking better of it. She might’ve gone her entire life without riding an elevator again. The stairs would have to do.
“I have a better idea,” Dean said confidently. He’d snuck in from behind her at the door of the stairwell and leaned against it, keeping it shut.
“Move,” Ingrid demanded. “I’m serious.”
He didn’t budge. “You can stay at my mother’s place. It’s a lot safer. I promise.”
Ingrid didn’t know whether to be creeped out, annoyed, angry, or grateful. She chose angry. “Move!”
Dean crossed his arms, getting comfortable with his back against the door. “My mom,” he went on. “She was a—you know, a doomsday prepper. Built a bunker in her basement. Stocked with all kinds of supplies. Please, it will be safer there.”
Ingrid was half-listening now, attention peaking at the wordbunker.
“I’m just trying to help,” Dean said innocently. “Do I really need to convince you of the danger you’re in. After that?”
Tepidly, she admitted he was right. She was treading territory she wasn’t prepared for. But so many questions remained. One in particular that she hated herself for not asking on that whirlwind of a day spent in the police station. Was Deantrulyhelping? Or had he known more than he was letting on?
Now that he was so fearless in the face of this invisible enemy, she knew without any doubt he was hiding something. Only her fondness for him had delayed a confrontation. Shedidn’t want to believe he was like the rest. She wanted him to be different. Wanted him to be someone she could trust.
But that was the thing about wanting. It often kept you from finding what you needed.
