But her body exhausted long before the jittery panic left her system. She got up and lay back down on the bed, panting, sweat cooling rapidly on her skin.
Panic still climbed over her, slimy and slick. She couldn’t get rid of it. And the truth pressed against her.
She couldn’t stay here. Once again, she had failed.
A small sound creaked out of the living room window. Joy’s breath seized in her throat. It could have been the house settling, the wind against the old siding. But in the silence, it was deafening.
She clamped her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head hard enough to make herself dizzy. But it didn’t help.
Ever since the Polar Plunge last week, everything had spiraled. She was getting worse, not better. Every shadow felt like it had eyes. Every creak, a threat.
She hadn’t gone to work in the past three days, had ignored Amari’s texts, Sloane’s calls. And Bear…
God, Bear.
He’d knocked on her door yesterday, his deep voice calling her name. And she’d hidden like a coward, curled on the floor, silent.
“Joy? You in there? Hudson says you haven’t been to work.”
His fist against the wood had been gentle but insistent. She’d pressed her hands harder against her mouth, afraid even the sound of her breathing might give her away.
“I’m worried about you, Bug. Just…let me know you’re okay.”
She’d waited, knees drawn to her chest, until his footsteps retreated, until the sound of his truck engine faded into the distance.
She couldn’t let him see this.
She forced herself out of bed, her legs unsteady beneath her as she crossed the room. Every step felt like moving through quicksand, her body fighting her, screaming at her to stop.
The hallway was dark, but she didn’t bother flipping the switch. What was the point? Light hadn’t helped her that night either.
That night, she had walked into this very room, full of fire and fury, convinced she could take on the world. That if she just fought hard enough, swung hard enough, she could win.
A truth she’d lived by her whole life.
She’d been wrong.
Moonlight streamed through the window, casting jagged shadows across the living room floor. Her eyes landed on the cracked plaster by the staircase. The place where her body had hit the wall.
Her stomach twisted.
She could still feel the impact. The shock of pain as her ribs took the brunt of it. The helplessness that had swallowed her whole as she crumpled to the floor.
She had barely gotten one swing in. One useless, pathetic swing.
Her grip had been too loose, her stance too open. And Jakob Kozak had plucked the bat from her hands like she was a child. Then he’d thrown her.
She wrapped her arms around herself, nausea rising in her throat as her gaze moved to the stairs.
That was where Nikola had held Sloane. Knife pressed to her skin. The silver blade glinting in the dim light of the hallway. Sloane’s terrified eyes. The small, involuntary whimper that had escaped her friend’s lips when the metal pressed deeper, way too close to Sloane’s unborn child.
Joy had still been conscious then, still had fight left in her. She’d tried to crawl toward them, tried to reach Sloane, but the room had been spinning, her body screaming in protest.
Nikola had only laughed.Stay down, little girl. You’ve done enough.
She had thought she could stop them. Thought she could help. It had never once occurred to her that she would fail.
But she had.
