Gnashing my teeth, I run back inside the house, take the stairs to the second floor two at a time, and storm into the master bedroom.
It’s empty.
I search everywhere, every nook and corner of the house, but that little son of a nutcracker is gone.
When I review the camera feed, it shows nothing but static.
Deeply shaken by the encounter, I go around the house obsessively checking locks, drawing drapes closed, and generally acting as paranoid as I feel. I assume the boy came in through the back door after I went through it, but I can’t come up with an explanation for how he got out. I should’ve run right into him coming down the staircase, but didn’t.
He literally vanished into thin air.
I’d call Jake and ask him to install more cameras on the inside of the house, but considering how badly our last meeting went, I doubt that’s such a good idea.
So I pour myself a vat of wine, lock myself into the bathroom, and draw a bath. Hunkering low in the bubbles, I hold onto the overfilled wine glass with shaking hands and try to pinpoint exactly when it was that I began losing my mind.
Because I can no longer convince myself I have a firm grip on reality. If I’m seriously considering that the ghost of a five-year-old kid is haunting me, I’ve lost it.
When the lights above the vanity flicker three times, I stifle a sob and guzzle the wine, needing Aidan with an ache that feels terminal.
That night, I dream that I’m drowning.
It’s vivid and horrifying. I wake up sweating with a scream stuck in my throat.
For the next three nights, I have the same dream. By Saturday morning, I’m a wreck. I haven’t been able to work at all. Every little creak of the house scares the bejesus out of me. The burning smell when I run the dryer changes to a stench of something putrid, like sewage.
Only in my heightened nervous state, it smells like rotting flesh.
When I investigate, I can’t find the source of it.
If I turn on the television, it turns itself off. Every gust of wind outside sends a cold draft through the house, making the curtains rustle and whisper. At least I think that’s what’s making that whispering sound, but I’m too scared to go look.
I’m so jumpy and strung out, I scream when a fly lands on my arm.
Desperate for contact, I send Aidan a text.
I miss you.
He doesn’t respond for so long, I think he won’t at all. But then his text comes through with a little chime that has my heart leaping into my throat.
I miss you, too.
He sends a white rabbit emoji along with it. For some strange reason, that brings tears to my eyes.
Can I come over?
This time his response is instant.
You still wearing that ring?
No.
Did you take it off right before you answered me?
Shit. Why does the man have to be so insufferably intelligent?
Please, Aidan. I need to see you. Please.
Sorry, bunny.
I stare at the screen, biting my lips. He doesn’t sound very sorry. Maybe I need to sweeten the offer.
May I please come over…master?
My phone remains silent.
I wonder if I should send him a snap of my booty or boobs, but the thought of taking a series of unflattering nude pictures in desperate search for one good enough to entice a man into allowing me to run to see him leaves me even more depressed than I was before.
How did I get to this point in my life? What the hell has happened to me?
When the doorbell rings and I find the step empty when I open the front door, I decide the only logical thing left to do is get drunk.
If I’m going insane, there’s no reason to do it sober.
“Kayla? Kayla dear, can you hear me?”
I open my eyes to find Fiona bending over me with a concerned expression on her face. It’s morning—apparently, Monday morning—and I’m lying on my back on the living room sofa with a splitting headache and a mouth that tastes like ashes.
“My,” she says, chuckling. “You look a sight. Had a wee bender over the weekend, did you, dear?”
“It was more than wee.” I sit up. The room tilts, and my stomach lurches along with it. I cover my mouth with a hand and produce a loud, unladylike burp.
“Everything all right?”
“Oh, yes, everything is splendiferous. Absolutely top notch.”
She purses her lips and gives me a disapproving look. “I must say, sarcasm is very unbecoming on you.”
“You’ll have to cut me some slack. I recently realized my brain has gone missing. Even worse, I realized it’s probably been gone for quite a while.”
“There’s not a thing wrong with your brain, my dear. Now, get off that sofa and pull yourself together. I don’t like to see you moping about.”