Famished - Meghan O'Flynn (learn to read books TXT) 📗

pissed than he’d been at mom’s husband, and he’d poisoned him, right?

My breath caught in my throat, and I tried to think of something that would make it better, make it funny, make it bearable, but there was nothing besides the fear and the urge to retch as if I could purge all this vile stuff from deep inside.

I left the bedroom, made my way to the living room window on jelly legs, and drew back the curtain. Below, the streetlight cast ghostly shadows onto sidewalks covered with wisps of powdered sugar snow. Empty as it always was, but hell, I was a paranoid freak, right? It had been five years. Surely he wasn’t coming tonight.

I dropped the curtain.

Stop, Hannah. Just stop. I kept my hand on the couch to steady myself, then the counter. In the kitchen, I pulled a lonely Pabst Blue Ribbon from the fridge and drank it in front of the sink in case it made me throw up. I gagged once, but swallowed again and again, and tossed the empty can in the sink. That would buy me four or five more hours of sleep, and tomorrow I’d jot down notes about my shitty night, just enough to make Tammy shake her head and say: “Mm-hmm. And why do you think that is?”

I staggered back to my bed, the room wavering at the edges, and pulled the blanket up to my chin. Beside me, the deserted spot where Jake used to lay felt like a living thing, breathing into my ear.

Alone. So alone. But did I miss him or just the body that provided some respite from being so vulnerable? Had I ever wanted him, or was I a terrible person who just needed someone to be there because I was so fucking afraid?

Probably the second. In a perfect world, I would have chosen someone more supportive. But that didn’t mean Jake deserved to die. My eyes filled, and I wiped them on the blanket. If I’d just held my tongue, Jake wouldn’t have left that night. Though he’d still be here if he had been more…calm. Patient. Understanding. Or if he hadn’t fucked someone else.

Let me know if there’s anything I can do…

Dominic’s flowers were still on my desk, probably wilting and filling my cubicle with their sickly sweet perfume. I’d have to get rid of them soon, though I didn’t want to. How dead would they have to be before Noelle began to tease me for holding onto them?

I closed my eyes, pictured Dominic’s face, and slipped my hand into my panties.

There must be something I can do for you, Hannah. His voice in my head was deep and smooth and reassuring.

Maybe if you just stayed here, just for a night, I could get some sleep.

Shall I sleep on the couch?

No, why don’t you stay with me in the bed. I’m sure we’ll both be more comfortable…

I ground my hips against my fingers. Nice, but not earth-shattering like what you read about in those Cosmo-type magazines. I focused on the mellow warmth of the alcohol coursing through my system. Not orgasmic, but sort of nice.

Panting and nauseous, I rolled over and glanced at the clock. Four-thirty. I needed to sleep so I could head to the shelter later. One of the only places outside of work, where I wasn’t as alone, wasn’t as afraid, wasn’t as fucked up.

I stifled a yawn and knelt before a little boy who was bouncing on the balls of his feet. Ash-blond hair glinted above huge brown eyes and cherub cheeks that I would have pinched if it wouldn’t have made me look like a huge weirdo. He was the kind of kid you see and think, aw, I could eat you alive! but you try to keep that to yourself because it’s super creepy to talk about eating children.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

He smiled broadly. “Timmy.”

“Nice to meet you, Timmy.” I held out my hand, and he took it. “Would you like a hot dog? Your mother said it was okay.”

“Yessssss!” he said, drawing out the word as only a five-year-old can.

“Follow me, sir.”

He skipped behind me to the cafeteria tables, clambered onto a bench, and grinned up at me as I retrieved a plate of food from the kitchen. “You’re pretty,” he said.

I froze, though I wasn’t sure why. What the hell was wrong with me? I swallowed hard. “Here you go.” I put his plate and fork in front of him and went back to the kitchen to take care of the women who were waiting patiently for their plates.

Hot dogs, baked potatoes, canned green beans. Hot dogs, baked potatoes, green beans. Dogs, potatoes, beans.

Timmy’s mother, Antoinette, stood next to me, efficiently wielding a pair of tongs. The bruise on her cheek and the gouge across her lip had almost healed from the altercation that had brought her to the shelter last week. Her blond hair was up in a clean ponytail, and freckles were visible along her nose and at her neckline. A pair of perfectly matched bluebirds on either shoulder aimed inwards toward her collarbone. Antoinette twisted to grab another stack of plates, and there was something in the set of her shoulders—high and straight—that suggested she hadn’t been born into a life of abuse. What had changed for her?

A little voice piped up from behind the counter. “Momma, can I have another one?”

Antoinette stood on her tiptoes and peeked over the partition. “Did you eat the beans?”

“Um…” Timmy scampered back to his plate.

“Kids,” Antoinette said with a grin.

“He seems sweet.” I set the last plate on the counter.

“He really is. He’s an angel.”

“Momma, all done!” He was back with his empty plate.

Antoinette put another hot dog on it. “Here you go, hon.”

He frowned. “Ketchup, please?”

She smiled, squirted some on the hot dog, and he ran off, eyes on his food.

“So, what do you have planned for next week?” I asked. Unless no one else needed the rooms, women could only stay ten days. Right now, we were full.

Antoinette shrugged and took off her apron. “I think I can go back to my old apartment.”

I nodded uncertainly. “I hope it works out. But if it doesn’t—”

“I know where you are.” She wiped her hands on her jeans and went to the front room to sit with Timmy.

Out the front window, the last of the dying sunlight had faded to dusky black, making everyone in the dining room stand out in stark contrast. I watched Antoinette ruffle Timmy’s hair and kiss his cheek, and my stomach turned like I had eaten something bad. I turned away and headed for the dishes in the sink.

The back door clanged open. I lifted a frying pan like a club and held it at the ready until I heard the pecking beeps of someone entering the alarm code. Then Ms. LaPorte entered, hugging three paper grocery bags to her chest. I rushed to her side and grabbed them from her, still gripping the pan.

“Thank you, dear.” She shrugged out of her down jacket, hung it on a hook, and opened the fridge by the stove. “I got everything for tomorrow’s breakfast. Even found some bacon on sale.”

I set the bags down and handed Ms. LaPorte a gallon of milk. Her hands were warm and comforting, but my stomach was still tight. I took a deep breath.

“Everything going okay here?”

“Dinner’s winding down. Nothing else to report. Pretty quiet, actually.” Quiet and gloriously boring.

“Ah, we can all do with some quiet nights.” Ms. LaPorte bustled back and forth between the fridge and the cupboards. I started on the pots and pans with a stainless steel scrubber. By the time I set the third pan on the sideboard to dry, my stomach felt almost normal.

“Hannah, why don’t you go home for the night?”

And the nausea was back. My hand shook. I dropped a clean pan onto the sideboard, and it clattered like it was going to break the counter. Ms. LaPorte shoved something else into the cupboard and either didn’t notice or didn’t mind the racket I was making.

“I’m okay for now.” I fought to control the tremor in my voice. “I figured I would help clean the after-dinner dishes.”

“You’ve been here all day, dear. Time for you to get home and get some rest. Everything will be fine. I won’t take no for an answer.”

Everything will be fine. Of course, it would. It wasn’t like I could live at the shelter. I set the last pan on the sideboard. “I’ll be back early tomorrow evening. Right after work.”

“No hurry, dear. You take your time.”

I exchanged my apron for my coat. “Like I said, I’ll be back early.”

I cast one more glance at Antoinette, who was wiping Timmy’s mouth. She saw me looking at her and waved. I waved back, zipped my coat, and exited the building, letting the door swing shut behind me with a clang that echoed through the deserted lot. No…not deserted—

I dropped my keys, but I was frozen, unable to retrieve them.

A figure crouched next to my car with a long slim object.

A knife!

My lungs stopped working. No a…coat hanger.

He’s trying to get into my car!

He jerked upright and made a break through the trees at the back of the lot.

His gait. The way he walked. I had not seen his