They stood there a moment or two longer in a film of awkwardness before Deven stepped to the side to dismiss herself. “Well, it was good seeing you, Paul. And good luck to you and Amber on the new baby.” She stopped as her stomach muscles clenched. More pain, real this time. The ache had her groaning and staggering into the wall.

“Deven, what’s wrong?” Paul’s arms circled her waist to hold her upright, but Deven could only hiss as her stomach knotted again in what felt like a rapid succession of stab wounds. Something was terribly wrong.

Deven felt her legs give out and then she was on the floor, the linoleum like a brick of ice against her cheek. All she could hear was Paul’s muffled yells ringing in her ear as he called for help.

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Deven was afraid to fall asleep. If she did, she would likely have nightmares; images of death and the morgue and the beautiful Kennedy-looking phantom girl she had seen in the mirror. The girl who looked like she was trying to tell her something.

Or even worse, Deven pictured she would have some of the same visions that had been plaguing her all day; her sister being held hostage, or raped, or lying on the side of a country road somewhere with her body beaten into an unidentifiable corpse. Because what was even more torturous than knowing what happened, was not knowing.

It wasn’t until the upper rim of the sun began peeking over the horizon spilling an ombre of color onto the waking sky, that Deven realized she had stayed awake through the night. She expected to be exhausted, but more than physical, it was mental. Her mind was too active to sleep, instead coming up with every kind of twisted what-if scenario to keep her anxiety running over.

Deven unfolded herself from the couch and stretched her stiff muscles. Desperately needing a drink, she trudged into the kitchen. It was only seven-thirty in the morning but her tongue ached for liquor. However, everything that had taken place served as a prevalent reminder that she could easily slide back onto that downward trajectory. Deven eyed the bottle of Grey Goose in her refrigerator, shuddering at the flashbacks of depression. There had been a period in her life where she was in a continuously inebriated state, like a zombie. And the domino effect was paralyzing.

Deven reached past the alcohol and grabbed one of the water bottles instead. Then, on a second thought, she pulled out the Grey Goose and poured the rest down the sink. She had been able to push through the temptation all this time and so far, hadn’t had to worry about a relapse. But then again, she hadn’t had to question the death of her sister either.