* * *
Ella’s hands trembled in her lap. It had happened again. The sudden bout of confusion. One moment she was sitting across from Roman having a conversation and the next she was overcome by confusion, her mind racing with questions. Why was she with Roman? What were they even talking about?
Like she’d done at Graceway each day, she’d excused herself to the bathroom. There, she would calm the rising panic, try to ascertain reality, and then get back to whatever she’d been doing.
But on the way to the restroom tonight, panic had risen like a pot boiling over. She knew it was happening but couldn’t head it off. She wasn’t thinking about Roman or the silver car or why exactly she was running. She just ran.
Ella peered through the back window. It was too dark to differentiate car colors. If she was being followed, she’d never know it. Her mind raced in time with her heart, her head throbbing from exertion.
She pulled Roman’s business card from her purse, texting him a lame excuse and promising to call in the morning. Then she shut down the phone. He’d try to call her, and she couldn’t handle that just yet.
What if she was going crazy?
She’d read about things like this. One day you’re perfectly normal and the next you’re caught up in some sort of mysterious psychosis.
But, no. The confusion had been getting better, just like the doctors said it would. As soon as the taxi had pulled away from Shield, Ella had been struck with total clarity on what she’d just run from: Roman and her plea for him to help her. In the past weeks, it had often taken her a couple of hours to regain clarity over what she’d been doing before the lapse.
The taxi slowed around the corner and pulled up in front of her mom’s tired 1940s home. She’d had the Cape-Cod-style house repainted in recent years, a deep grayish blue she’d said was peaceful. Tonight, it looked dull and foreboding. Even the gentle glow of the streetlamps and porch light didn’t brighten up the home. Guilt reared up as Ella paid the driver and stepped out into the frigid night. Mom’s garden beds along the porch were untidy and the big maple needed a trim before a storm came and knocked it onto the house.
She fished out her keys and unlocked the front door, casting a quick glance behind her as the taxi pulled away. The street was dark and empty, no lurking silver Camry anywhere in sight. Still, fear clawed at the edge of her mind. Paranoia, she reminded herself. She stepped inside quickly, shut the door and locked up.
She set her purse on the console table near the front door, then unzipped her boots and hung her coat and hat in the tidy foyer closet. Turning on lights as she walked toward the living room, she leaned over the couch and patted Isaac’s soft head.
“Hey, bud,” she said to her mom’s dog, sidling past the couch to grab the television remote. Isaac looked up from the living room couch, but didn’t actually move a single limb in greeting. His peaceful quiet put Ella at ease, warmth rushing over her as the comforting sounds from the television filled the room. She hated the silence in the house, but as long as Isaac was content on the couch, she could be sure she was alone. He was a funny old guy, about the size of a basketball and almost as round. He was also perpetually silent, unless he met a stranger. She flipped on the news and set the remote on the coffee table. Her gaze passed over the book an acquaintance at church had brought her and she rolled her eyes.
The Prodigal Son Returns wasn’t Ella’s choice reading material. She figured there was a hint somewhere in the gift—a quiet reminder that Ella had been gone too long when her mom had needed her most. Shoving the guilt aside, she moved into the kitchen.
She plunked her keys down on the gray-blue Corian countertop and opened the small cabinet next to the fridge. It was packed with a hodgepodge of cooking spices, along with a stockpile of her mom’s medications. Ella grabbed a bottle of aspirin, her gaze catching on the sleep meds she’d quit cold turkey as soon as she’d been released from the hospital. She’d been taking the pills regularly for years, and she was convinced their effectiveness was one of the reasons she hadn’t woken to the intruder the night she’d been shot. She pressed the cabinet shut, frustrated. She wouldn’t get much sleep tonight. Again. But she’d rather be sleep-deprived than dead. She opened the fridge and peered inside.
She was down to the last bottle of iced tea. She’d have to hit the store tomorrow. Her hand closed around the bottle just as a swish of movement whispered behind her.
Ella gasped as an arm snaked around her middle, dragging her back from the fridge, her feet falling out from under her. She screamed, the iced tea crashing to the floor, her hands prying at the strong arm subduing her.
A sharp sting lanced her upper arm and this time her scream was soundless as she desperately tried to twist away. She registered everything in slow motion, it seemed. A syringe in her periphery, held by a black-gloved hand. Isaac whining at her feet, his tiny claws clicking on the tiled floor as he followed the scene. Futilely, she tugged at the arm dragging her across the kitchen. But her limbs felt loose, her strength ebbing.
Her heart was beating erratically, her hands tingling and numbing, dropping away involuntarily from the arm that was holding her. She tried again to scream, but nothing happened. The house was spinning. Or was she? Nausea roiled in her gut. Panic swirled in her mind. She needed to escape.
But first, she needed to sleep.
Roman slowed as he turned into his old neighborhood. Eastport was an eclectic waterfront community with low crime. Cars lined the curbs of narrow streets where kids often played outside until after dark, though likely not tonight with this brutal cold.
Just minutes after Ella had run off, she’d texted him a vague apology, promising to call in the morning.
He didn’t know what to think about Ella’s story, but he knew one thing: she needed help. It was too late for her to rescind. Roman was going to help her whether she wanted him to or not. And he didn’t plan to wait until she called in the morning.
After quickly locking up the building, he’d headed straight across the city, stopping only to fill his gas tank. He hoped he was right to assume Ella was staying at her mom’s. He’d grown up only two blocks from the Camdens, but hadn’t visited the area since his parents had moved a few years back.
Still, he easily recognized the home and parked at the curb. Stepping out into the night, he walked up the cracked driveway toward the house.
Gray-white puffs of air seeped out from underneath the garage door, a car idling inside.
Was Ella planning to head out somewhere? He stood still in the driveway for a moment, his breath swirling in the biting winter air as he waited to see whether the garage door would slide open or the car would turn off. When neither happened, he walked up the porch steps to the front door.
He knocked, noting the peeling paint and tattered silk-floral welcome sign. Looked like Julia Camden could use a little help with the old place. Maybe Roman could swing by sometime and offer a hand, fix up a few things to welcome Ella’s mom home after she recovered. If she recovered. From what he’d heard, the prognosis wasn’t good.
Roman rang the bell and knocked again, stepping back to scan the house. The shades were drawn in all the windows and, aside from the dim porch light, all was dark. A whisper of unease crept up his neck. He pounded on the door, loudly this time.
“Ella?” he called. “It’s Roman.”
Still nothing. He jiggled the knob. Locked.