Dead Ringer

15

As the car slowed down, the air inside thickened. Everything that had disappeared in the intoxicating rush of speed caught back up to me with a vengeance, including the identity of the man sitting beside me.

I felt his demeanor shift, too—less palpable than mine, but still a subtle transition as tension seeped back into his muscles. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel as he pulled up to the garage, and his spine stiffened, pulling him away from the seat as he put the car in park.

"Wh—?"

Before I even knew what my question was, he'd clambered out and slammed the door in my face.

I stared after him, noticing for the first time that his clothes were stain-free. The garage's lights were off, its "Open" sign flipped to "Closed." He had gone out of his way to help me even when he was off-duty.

What was he doing on that street in the first place? With the adrenaline wearing off, my general unease whispered in my ear that coincidences didn't exist around this guy. Was he stalking me?

"Shut up," I muttered to myself, shouldering my way out of the car. "I'm sure he has better things to do in his sports car than stalk you."

"You say something?" Ciar called as he flipped on the lights inside the garage.

"No." I wandered closer, slowing as I entered the circle of light. He was already climbing into the tow truck, and before I could say anything more, he slammed the door.

The engine roared to life, and the last thing I heard in the rush of air in the truck's wake was Ciar shouting, "Stay here!" out the window.

I gaped at the truck's rear license plate as it peeled out of the lot, my brain refusing to believe he'd just left me there.

It didn't take long for the familiar panic to set in. My throat closed around the air, and the harder I tried to breathe the dizzier I became. A single thought echoed through my brain: Not again. Not another person leaving.

I knew it was stupid—he was just going to get my car, and then he'd be back—but even as that tiny, logical voice reassured me, I fell into the chair behind the desk and curled my knees up to my chest.

I hated being alone.

Breathe. I just had to breathe. Ciar was coming back. He was.

No, he's not. You are alone.

That word echoed in my head, refusing to fade. Alone. I squeezed my eyes shut, clutching the arms of the chair as if they were the last anchors to my sanity.

And then another voice joined the first, softer and sweeter, soothing the nerves fraught by Ciar's departure.

You're never alone.

"Tilda," I whispered.

I'm here.

After everything, she was still there.

The crushing pressure on my chest lifted as my breaths slowly evened. I sank deeper into the chair, letting the tension leave my aching shoulders inch by inch as her whispers grew stronger.

The next thing I knew, a hand circled my arm, tugging me back toward something sinister and forsaken.

"Maisye."

I frowned. The name sat like a foreign word on a familiar tongue. For a moment, blurry, half-formed shapes twisted in the distance, hovering like dementors waiting to make a move. I tried to resist, tried to back away, but that name again—shouted this time—sharpened their edges.