Chapter 1
The alarm clock soundedits siren, and Samantha rolled over and brought her hand down fast and hard on the snooze button.
Then she held still, taking inventory, a practice she’d learned to do every morning: Yes, she’d drunk last night. Yes, she’d had a lot. But she remembered coming home, and she didn’t remember anything bad happening, so no, she hadn’t blacked out. Yes, she felt a little sick, butonlya little sick. All in all, it seemed she’d come out of it in pretty good shape.
Slowly she sat up and swung her legs to her floor, still paying close attention to any signs of a bad hangover, but there were only the low rumbles of exhaustion and nausea.
She turned the alarm off for real and then dragged her feet across the worn carpet to her bathroom.
She flicked on the light, and by chance her eyes found her reflection in the mirror—if she’d had the energy, she might have screamed.
There was blood all over the left side of her face.
Her hand flew to the splotchy red, but it was all dry. She turned to look at her profile, expecting to see a giant hole in her head, but there wasn’t one. Then she noticed the blood on her right forearm. She checked her hands. Yep. Both bloody.
Her body started to tremble. What was this? She took another inventory, trying to feel for a pain, feel for a cut, feel for a source of the blood, but she couldn’t find anything.
She hurried back to her bed and turned on her nightstand lamp. There was blood on the bed, but not much.
She ripped off her pajamas and gave herself a thorough once over in the mirror.
There was no wound on her body.
And that was bad news.
Because that meant this blood did not belong to her.
It belonged to someone else.
She dropped to her knees.Oh, God. What have I done?Shehadblacked out. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember. She’d gone out to the bar with the girls after work. And then she’d come home.
She opened her eyes and scanned her room for clues, but it was just her bedroom. Her ordinary, drab, depressing bedroom.
Please, God. Make me remember.
Coffee. She had to get coffee. That would help.
She hurried to the coffee pot and then waited impatiently for it to brew. She never made coffee at home. Despite the expense, she preferred the good coffee from the local coffee shop. No, she couldn’t really afford it, but it was her only luxury.
She drank the coffee sans cream and sugar as fast as she could, scalding her mouth and throat. Then she stood there clutching the sideboard, waiting for it to kick in. Waiting to remember. Waiting for a miracle.
And that’s what it would take. She’d blacked out at least a hundred times before and those memories never came back. Why did she think this time would be different?
Because this time there was blood.
Maybe she should go see a hypnotist. Yeah, right. Like there was a hypnotist for hire anywhere near Hartport, Maine. And even if she could find one, how would she afford it? She opened her eyes and again saw the blood on her hands.
She needed to shower. Right now.
The shower did not feel as good as she’d thought it would. She wished she could go to an AA meeting, but she couldn’t. She’d missed too much work already. She would find a meeting after work.
If she didn’t get arrested before then for whatever it was she’d done last night.
She got herself put together and grabbed her coat.
Then she dropped it on the floor and stepped back.
There was blood all over it.