Page 11 of Hunted to the Altar
“Off?” I offered, forcing a small laugh. “Yeah, I’ve been feeling that way, too. Just one of those days, I guess.”
Lisa hesitated, her brow furrowing as she studied me. “You know, if you ever need to talk…”
“Thanks,” I said quickly, cutting her off before she could finish. “But I’m fine. Really.”
She didn’t look convinced, but she let it go, turning her attention back to the box. I could feel her glancing at me every so often, her concern lingering like a shadow.
The day wasn’t without its quiet triumphs, though. As I worked my shift, I helped a young mother find clothes for her children, guiding her through the small donation closet. Her smile when she found a warm winter coat for her son was what usually filled me with hope. Today, it barely made a dent in the unease that clung to me like a second skin.
Karen pulled me aside after lunch, her face drawn with worry. “I’m not trying to pry, Nina,” she breathed. “But you seem…preoccupied. You’re usually one of the most dependable people here, but today it feels like your head is somewhere else.”
“I’m just tired,” I said again, my default excuse. “Really. I didn’t sleep well last night.”
She didn’t look convinced, but she gave a slight nod. “Okay. But if you ever need to talk, or even take a day off, you know we’re here for you.”
I nodded, giving her another forced smile. “Thanks, Karen. I appreciate it.”
By mid-afternoon, I was working in the kitchen, preparing sandwiches for the evening meal. The rhythmic motion of spreading peanut butter and jelly on slices of bread should have been soothing, but my hands trembled with every pass of the knife. It was as though my body couldn’t decide whether it wanted to fight or flee, caught in a constant state of hypervigilance.
One of the shelter’s regulars, an older man named George, shuffled into the kitchen as I worked. He gave me a kind smile, his weathered face creased with lines that spoke of a hard life. “How’re you holding up, Nina?” he asked, his voice warm and rough around the edges.
“I’m fine,” I said automatically, my smile faltering under his scrutiny.
“You’ve got that look,” he said, tapping his temple. “Like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. Don’t let it crush you, kid.”
His words stayed with me long after he left, a quiet reminder that even here, in this place of safety and refuge, I couldn’t escape the weight pressing down on me.
Even the clients at the shelter seemed to notice my unease. One woman, a soft-spoken survivor of domestic violence, placed a hand on my arm as I handed her a stack of clean clothes. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice tinged with concern.
I forced a smile, nodding quickly. “I’m fine,” I said. “Just a long day.”
She didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press the issue. Still, her kindness only made the weight in my chest feel heavier. These people came here to feel safe, to rebuild their lives. How could I help them when I couldn’t even feel safe myself?
When I finally stepped outside, the sun was already setting, the sky painted in hues of orange and pink. The air was crisp, a welcome contrast to the stuffy warmth of the shelter. I took a deep breath, trying to ground myself, but the unease only grew stronger as I made my way home.
The streets felt emptier than usual, the sounds of the city muted as though the world itself was holding its breath. My footsteps echoed against the pavement, each one a reminder that I was alone. And yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t. Every time I glanced over my shoulder, I saw nothing but shadows. But that didn’t mean someone wasn’t there.
By the time I reached my apartment building, my hands were shaking. I fumbled with the keys, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps as I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The scent of smoke hit me again, stronger this time, and mystomach churned. I’d aired out the apartment this morning. There was no reason for it to smell. Right?
A thought made my heart race, my mind spiraling into a thousand possibilities. Someone had been here. Someone had been in my home.
I dropped my bag by the door exhausted from helping at the shelter, my gaze darting around the room. Everything looked the same as it had this morning, but the feeling of wrongness was stronger now, pressing against me like a physical weight.
I froze as I entered the bedroom, my gaze locking on the dresser. The drawer was open—just a crack, but enough to make my blood run cold. I hadn’t left it like that. I was sure of it.
My breathing grew faster, my chest tightening as panic set in. The walls seemed to close in around me, the room spinning as I backed away. “Who’s there?” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the sound of my breathing. The silence that followed was deafening, every creak of the apartment amplified in the stillness.
And then I saw him.
He stepped out of the shadows, flicking his cigarette to the ground, like he’d always belonged there, his presence filling the room with an oppressive weight. My heart stopped as I took him in, his sharp blue eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that stole the air from my lungs.
“Hello, Nina,” he said, his voice low and even. “We need to talk.”
I stumbled back, my hands grasping for something—anything—to defend myself with. “How the hell did you get into my apartment?” I demanded, my voice shaking but defiant. “What do you want from me?”
He didn’t move, didn’t flinch. It was like he was carved from stone, every line of his face sharp and unyielding. “My name is Samuel,” he said. “And I’m here to keep you safe.”
He was familiar and I already knew his name, although Icouldn’t recall from where. Safe? The word felt like a slap, mocking in its simplicity. “Safe from what?” I demanded, my voice rising. “From you?”
