Already Gone WHO Irena Thorne OT Knox WHAT The end...or is it? WHERE Ren's flat in London WHEN Friday, July 15, 2016 - late afternoon WARNINGS None (Sadness)
Get out. Get out, get out, get out. The words kept repeating in her head. Over and over and over again.
Get. Out.
That's what he'd told her. She'd run to Donovan for help, for answers, for reassurance, and the gist of his advice had been to calm down and get out of town for a little while. As if a spa retreat was going to fix this.
She didn't know how to fix this. She didn't know what this was.
Her hands were shaking. Her entire body felt as if it was vibrating. The bus shuddered to a stop, but the wavelengths of the vibrations weren't synchronized. Her insides scrambled and for a second, she thought she might be sick.
One more stop. One more stop and then the short walk to the Ivory House and the penthouse apartment she'd been living in for the last three years. It was one of Donovan's properties. Impeccable. Luxurious. Private. A glittering jewel nestled into the St. Katharine Docks, a mere pebble's toss from the Tower of London. It wasn't the kind of place an almost-middle-class girl from the Seattle 'burbs with an alcoholic mother and a convict for a father would usually be able to call her own at twenty years old, but Donovan rewarded her well for her work. He'd always looked out for her. It was one of the reasons she trusted him. He'd never let her down.
Irena rubbed her hands together, her skin already chapped from the rigorous scrubbing she'd given them in his bathroom. As if she could wash this off.
She tucked her hands beneath her legs and cast a glance to her side from the corner of her eye. At this time of day, the buses were usually packed with tourists traveling from one landmark to another. The seat next to her was empty. She could feel the buzz of energy from people straining to avoid her. Avoid eye contact, avoid conversation, avoid touching her.
Did they know? Could they see it on her, in her? What she'd done?
She bit her lip and watched as the scenery turned from Vaughan Way to East Smithfield. Took a left and offered a glimpse of Dock Street. If they'd gone straight instead, all the way to Cable, they'd have come upon the old Victorian townhouse that housed the Jack the Ripper Museum, just two doors down from Papa John's and the Filipino stir-fry place she liked.
Very close now. So close. Get out. Calm down. Everything would be fine as soon as she was away from London.
She believed that, didn't she?
The bus started to slow again and Ren stood unsteadily. She scratched the back of her neck. Her skin was dry there too. It flaked and caught beneath the rounded edges of her nails. But no, upon inspection, she knew the dark, reddish-brown substance wasn't skin.
She pulled Donovan's shirt tighter around herself and curled her hands into fists. The doors slid open with the slow hiss of pressurized air releasing, and she tried to ignore the wide berth the other departing riders gave her as they exited. If Ren could have seen herself — oversized clothes and the ends of her hair sticking straight out in every direction, as if she'd repeatedly rubbed a balloon across the strands until her head was a minefield of static electricity — she would have been surprised that no one had called the authorities to report the missing patient from the psych ward who was roaming the streets of London.
When she'd left that morning to catch the coach to Cambridge, she'd been wearing her favorite pair of Mango skinny jeans, sandals, and a navy-and-white plaid fitted blazer over a loose, sleeveless white tunic. It was what she called "collegiate casual."
After calling Donovan to pick her up, he'd driven her to his home office instead of back to the firm or to her flat. The less people who saw her, the better. Her jeans had been torn and bloody. Her tunic and blazer were stained. He'd wanted to know the whole story, and he hadn't looked relieved when she was done sharing it. He'd pushed her into the bathroom, under much protest from her in which she'd repeatedly screamed at him not to touch her, but once he left her alone, she'd eventually peeled off her blood-stained clothing and rinsed her hair out as he'd instructed. The way he'd looked at her when he'd said that had caused the air around her to snap and crackle like tiny fireworks. Even though Ren knew it was all in her head, his expression had instantly changed, and he'd quickly backed out of the bathroom and closed the door between them.
She'd never seen so much red — not even that one misguided attempt to dye her hair Sassy Scarlet, which had been an utter fail because she hadn't bleached her hair first. It went on and on and on, streams of it that flowed from her head and swirled around the drain of Donovan's shower before disappearing completely.
It didn't make sense. All that blood… Her blood. Outside of her body. But she was fine. Walking and talking and—
And that poor man. She could still see him as he'd dropped to his knees, begging her, clawing at her, the color draining from him just as quickly as it washed away from her….
What had she done?
Donovan had given her a plain white shirt and a pair of black drawstring sweatpants. They were ill-fitting, considering their difference in size, but they were cleaner than the clothes she'd been wearing. Clothes that had mysteriously disappeared from the bathroom when she went in there to dry her hair. He'd also loaned her a baseball cap — Yankees, not Mariners — and told her to make sure to keep the brim pulled down. It was all he'd needed to say to get his point across. She needed to remain inconspicuous...or at least not identifiable on camera.
That was when he'd added that she should get out of the city for a while. Visit with her family, Donovan suggested, or book a meditative retreat in some hippie colony outside of LA. The point was that she needed to relax.
Ren wasn't sure she'd ever be able to relax again.
She also wasn't sure that he wasn't sending her away to give him time to clean up her mess. What if she'd ruined everything?
No. Not what if. She might have killed a man. She didn't know how. There was no logical explanation for what had happened, and as long as she didn't understand it….
She had to get out. Had to leave. It wasn't safe. Going to her family didn't seem like the best idea either, but before the bus ever reached her stop, Donovan had texted the flight reservation information. Destination: Willow Creek, Oregon.
She'd deal with that later. Passport, she needed her passport. Her driver's license. Her student visa. Clothes. She should take a proper shower first. Could she make it through airport security if she still had dried blood on her body?
Money. She'd need money. The safe. No credit cards. Fake documentation. No, that wouldn't work either. Knox knew all of her aliases.
Knox.
The thought of him was enough to stop Ren in her tracks just outside her door. She couldn't leave without telling him.
She had to. It wasn't worth the risk.
She'd leave him a note. Explain it all...somehow.
But he'd find her.
She'd ask him not to.
He could always find her.
Did she even know how to go off-the-grid? Really? Shouldn't she? That should be a skill she knew.
She didn't want to leave him.
He rarely ever made her feel calm.
But if she touched him….
Her fingers trembled as she fought to shove her key into the lock. This wasn't like her. She had to pull herself together. She wasn't the type of person to buckle under pressure—
His nails digging into her forearm as the shadows gathered in the hollow of his cheeks. Raking away the layers of her skin. Red, angry gashes.
That feeling that she was invincible. More alive than she'd ever been before. Her skin knitting itself back together almost as quickly as he'd torn it from her….
Ren dropped the keys. She crouched down, dragged her hands over her head, through her hair, and wrapped her arms around herself. The vibrations were too much. It was like she could feel every molecule in her body moving, stretching apart, growing, getting stronger. It was...exhausting.
Exhilarating.
Carefully, she wrapped her fingers around her keys and focused on steadying herself. Finding her center.
Control.
Calm.
Breathe, her mind whispered. She inhaled a deep breath. Exhaled. Again. Again. Again.
Gripping her key fob, Ren stood. The buzz had subsided. She turned the key and pushed the door open.
Dread coiled in the pit of her stomach as soon as she did. The heady scent of spices wafted from the front of the flat. Mala, she'd bet. It was just a walk across the docks to the Indian restaurant she favored. It triggered her hunger instantly, but she was quickly distracted by the panic that followed.
No. No no no no no. Nooooo. No, he wasn't supposed to be here.