Page 70 of Hellbound

But none of that sat right with her, either. She must have missed something in her search. And if there was one thing from her time as a journalist that she still excelled at, it was obsessively stalking internet profiles until she had enough evidence to make connections.

To find the truth.

Lakewood. She needed to go back to Lakewood. Marian opened her phone and plugged A Page Apart into her maps app.

Habit drove Marian to open the pictures section of the bookstore’s Google page. Absently, she swiped through, as if there was a nonzero chance she’d see Tori’s face in reviews posted in the last two days.

She didn’t. So she expanded her search. A Page Apart was sandwiched between a Chinese restaurant and Petunia’s Stationary. Marian hit those profiles too, but came up empty. “Great food, terrible service. One star.” No sign of Tori. Marian moved on to the park across the street. “The playground is always covered in bird shit. Smells like weed all the time. Stay away!!” A picture of a picnic bench splattered with white droppings. Nope, next. Across from that, a motel. The Lakewood Inn. “The rooms are cheap. Bruno at the front desk is a bro.” Two stars. A photo of a white pick-up truck with a barely-there scratch beside a rear taillight. In the background, just out of focus, a Black woman in a lavender sweatsuit walked across the sidewalk.

Marian sat up straight.

She knew that fluffy head of hair. She knew that pink leather backpack draped over the woman’s shoulder. Even without seeing her face, she knew.

Marian’s nostrils flared. Her lips quirked in a lopsided smirk. Found you.

Her eyes flitted to the timestamp on the review. Yesterday, at three forty-five PM.

A fiery need burned behind her ribs. Need that had nothing to do with that dream she was fighting so hard to forget. She’d channel all that frustration into the task ahead. Afterward, she’d force herself to call Mr. Vale and confront him about last night.

Marian slid off the futon and hurried toward the bathroom in search of ibuprofen. She shoved aside the canvas partition and dressed quickly. Her beloved olive jacket had a tear in the sleeve and a blood stain that spanned the whole arm.

That wouldn’t do.

She dumped the jacket in the bathroom sink and gingerly shrugged on the black one Mr. Vale had given her in a hurry.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Union Station was a madhouse. She’d taken the Red Line west and had to transfer to another line to get to Long Beach. But her train and many others were severely delayed, the monitor proclaimed. It took her a few tries to read the screen with the war going on in her belly.

Her stomach had been sour since she left her apartment, as if her body had forgotten what to do with food that wasn’t ultra processed. The thought of throwing up a free meal made Marian want to pass out and cry at the same time.

Or was she genuinely sick? A crippling bout of weakness came over her as she passed a bustling Starbucks. It forced her to collapse in the nearest vacant seat to sit and sweat.

She peeled off her cap and swiped at her forehead, where beads of perspiration had gathered in record time. Blearily, she looked around at all the things contributing to the noise pounding on her skull.

Espresso machines screeched. Voices blared over the PA—boarding announcements, arrivals, parking violations. There was a TV mounted on the pillar between a pretzel shop and convenience store. Her eyes narrowed as she caught sight of the headline flashing below a female anchor: Breaking News.

“Tragedy struck the L.A. Metro this morning when a transit authority technician discovered the body of a deceased man on the southbound track of—”

Inscrutable text scrolled across the lower third and Marian was too far away to try and decipher it. The broadcast cut to B-roll of emergency crews gathered around the Metro station at Highland Park.

“—around four thirty this morning. The cause of death is not yet known. Police don’t suspect foul play currently, but anyone with information about—”

Marian had no memory of getting out of her chair, but when she came back to herself, she was standing in the aisle while a few onlookers threw her wary glances. She whirled around on unsteady legs. For once, she recognized the trigger. But she’d not expected that the mere sight of an ambulance would set off another attack.

She was stuck between then and now. Caught halfway between her past and her present. Strapped to a gurney. Surrounded by strangers. Death awaited.

She stumbled sideways into a woman guarding an armful of soft pretzels.

“Sorry,” Marian slurred as she jerked away and gripped the nearest pillar for balance.

The stations’ shapes and colors rolled in and out of focus. Her stomach lurched, and Marian had to close her eyes against the sensation of being thrown forward. It’s all in your head. Her feet were planted on solid ground.

It was all in her head.

When she opened her eyes, everyone was staring at her. People, children, travelers all assessing her with wary gazes. Judging her.

She had to get away, to escape from all who watched but did not see her.