Page 9 of A Violet Obsession

I glance down at the soft green fabric, briefly touching the buttons that accent the waist above a flowing skirt. Hardly a corset. The main reason I wear dresses is because of how loose the A-lines are, and how forgiving they are in all the places I need them to be. Not that I’d ever admit that out loud.

With one last concerned glance, she grabs her purse and winks. “Don’t let the cookies go to waste.”

Once she’s gone, the room is quiet again. The soft notes of the classical music the auction house owner enjoys are playing over the PA system. I sigh, roll my neck, and get back to my job.

I work my way through the remaining lots steadily, checking items against the manifest, wrapping, photographing, and logging. By the time I finish the last of the smaller lots, my body feels heavy and sluggish. I’ve pulled plenty of late nights here before, but my poor sleep is obviously catching up to me.

I let out a slow breath, close my eyes, and stretch my hands over my head, trying to loosen the muscles in my back. When my skin buzzes with nervous energy, my eyes snap open. A faint hum is threading through the classical music, its odd frequency filling my head. I circle back to my table, thinking it’s feedback from the speakers, but the buzzing only grows louder and more insistent until it reaches a crescendo when I pass the jewelry cabinet.

I grit my teeth, trying to shake off the feeling. My ears are ringing, and the colors around me are too bright. I reach out to brace myself on the cabinet when the floor slips sideways under my feet.

Too little sleep and too much sugar. I absolutely regret eating that third cookie.

Fisting my hands, I carefully make my way back to the table and grip it’s edges. Dawn’s right. I should go home. Glancing at my phone, I see that it’s almost eleven.

Hera is going to kill me.

I’ll finish up the clock and then go, I tell myself, throwing the pieces of foam that have blood on them from my utility knife mishap in the garbage can.

I’m fitting the freshly cut pieces into the box when the classical music piped through the PA system changes to a retro country playlist. I cock my head. Either Jeremiah or Bryce, the security guards on duty tonight, must have gotten sick of the sleep-inducing orchestral strains. Can’t say I blame them.

I’m putting the lid on the clock when my vision blurs.

Don’t pass out. Not here. Just leave the box and go home.

The buzzing is deafening now as I reach for my purse. There’s a roaring in my ears alongside the whispers, but I’m too exhausted to figure out what they say.

The world stutters. Vivid, nightmarish images flash in front of me.

I’m not in the workroom anymore. I’m leaning against a wall in the hallway near the lobby, staring down at my feet. My head is impossibly heavy, and when I try to lift it, the world lurches sideways. The hallway stretches and compresses as if I’m looking through the wrong end of a telescope.

What’s happening? Am I sick? Can too much coconut poison you?

A terrified scream tears through the fog in my head and yanks at something deep in my brain.

My head snaps up.

Bryce is in front of me, his face twisted with fear.

And a man dressed head to toe in black is between us.

“Please! Don’t!” Bryce cries out with his hands raised.

The boom reverberates through my entire body, followed by the smell. Gunpowder mixed with something metallic.

An odor I recognize.

More explosions crack the air, and Jeremiah reels backward down the hall, his hand clutching his side.

“No.” The word comes out as a sob, but my voice sounds like it’s coming from far away.

“There’s no time,” a second masked man yells. “He tripped the alarm. We’ve got to go.”

The first man turns toward me, and all I can see is the black hole at the end of the barrel staring at me. “Let’s go, then,” he barks.

I don’t wait. Let him shoot me in the back. I’m not a hero.

I whirl and sprint down the hallway, my skirt twisting around my legs as panic fuzzes the edges of the world. Their voices are garbled as they continue to shout behind me.