Page 52 of 1st Shock
No answer. I shake my head.Stupid girl.I know she's not here. She's with JJ questioning Billy Ray.
The name douses the burning panic shredding me. He'll have answers and help us figure this out. Find this lunatic dumping young women along the Beltway. He has to.
I stare at the wall across from me and focus on Billy Ray as a potential lead.
The pressure in my chest eases and I squeeze out a short, choppy breath. Then another. On my third I fill my lungs, force myself to count to three as I exhale. My vision clears and the red slashes in the painting on the opposite wall come into sharp focus.
Rational Meg suggests I've just had the mother of all panic attacks, something not exactly foreign to me, but it's been a long time, fourteen months to be exact and I'd started to believe I'd licked that little disorder.
Work. That's what I need. To ignore my scattered thoughts and push through. When I finish Avery, I'll have that sense of completion I desperately need.
I get to all fours then rise to my feet, stumbling the short distance to my office. My eyes are on the back door and I take a second to think that through. Quiet surrounds me, nipping at the back of my neck because I'm alone in this office. Security system notwithstanding, we had a break-in. And an attack on Haley. We wouldn't let her stay here alone, but somehow it's all right for Charlie and me to.
I drag my gaze and peer in at Avery.
No.
Not Avery. A reconstruction of Avery.
Who am I kidding?
Time and again I get emotionally attached to replicas—not even the real skulls—of dead people. Those reconstructions might not all be in my studio anymore, but each enters with an energy attached that never leaves. The room or me. Those we can't identify—and as good as we are, there've been a lot—their souls stick around, latch on to me like a lifeline I can't give them.
Even standing in the hallway, if I look hard enough, I can see them, sense them pulling me back into my studio, my own personal hell, begging me to find them.
And bring them home. The pressure in my chest builds.It's happening. Again.
I can't do it. Not so soon after the last attack. I'll go insane if I don't get control of myself. Intellectually, I understand this and I'm grateful for that clarity of mind. Moving quickly, my eyes on the floor, away from anything that might intensify my panic, I step into my office, grab my purse and sketchpad and flat-out sprint to the back door. I'm alone and I know what I need.
Still, I give Avery a silent apology, promising I'll be better in a couple hours. After a visit to my happy place.
I lock the door behind me and use the remote on my keyring to arm the security system.
I hit the Beltway and chop the sixty minute drive to the Silver Tail River in half. I don't have time to mess around with panic attacks. I'm on a mission to get my mojo back. To sit on the ground and dig my fingers into earth, inhaling the loamy scent of soil.
I check my rearview, making sure I haven’t been tailed by whoever the psycho is messing with us. I even punch the gas and cross two lanes to get to my exit and let out a breath when I’m neither crushed by an oncoming truck or followed. I’m alone.Thank you.
After parking in my usual spot in the small gravel lot beside the kayak launch, I toss my purse in the back, hiding it under a jacket I keep there. Phone? I glance at the cupholder where I usually stow my cell. Empty. Dammit. In my rush to get here, I left it in my office. Nothing to be done about it now and berating myself won’t help. Instead, I grab my supplies. Thirty minutes. That's all I need.
There are no cars aside from mine and as I glance around, I see no one. Perfect. I hop out of the van, lock it up and shove my keys in my jacket pocket. The babbling sound of water against rock immediately snaps my brain to a better place. A kinder, gentler one, as my sister liked to joke.
Good. This is good.
Thirty minutes and back to work I go.
I stride along the old dirt path formed from years of residents in my hometown trudging along. Two hundred yards ahead is the old shack—the she-shed.
As I pass, I don't fight the smile. It contributed to my love of the outdoors and I'd spent plenty of nights lying on the tiny front deck staring at stars with my family. Charlie had even secretly brought a few boyfriends to the shed. Even then, my sister was a forward thinker.
Me? This wasmyplace. I wasn't about to share it with someone who’d probably break my heart. Looking back, my memories here only include happy, carefree moments and that's what I need now.
It's been years since I've been inside, but from the outside, I can see edges of rotting wood. Frankly, it's a miracle the thing is still standing. A testament to Dad's woodworking skills I suppose. If I had more time, particularly today when I could use a few moments to immerse myself in the joyful times of my childhood, I'd go in and see what kind of condition the place is in.
Next time.
I keep walking, my feet crunching over loose gravel along the path. There's a giant boulder just ahead that sits at the top of the river bank. That's my spot. I like to sit on the ground, my back propped against the boulder as the water laps below me. Heaven.
My version of it anyway.
