Page 72 of Make You Mine

As I do, and my eyes unravel, it sinks in. I didn’t set any alarm clock.

My eyebrows lift even higher with confusion when I stare at my screen.

It’s not an alarm to wake me up. It’s a reminder.

12:20 Be sure to take out the trash while you’ve got time. Or it’ll stink out the whole house.

Since when do I set reminders to take out the trash?

Clicking on it, there’s a detailed message underneath it.

Make sure you drive into town to do so. You don’t want the police finding out it’s your trash. Trust me on that one.

I frown. It’s not that I don’t remember. I’m certain I didn’t write this reminder for myself.

My jaw tightens. It wasn’t me.

It was him. This psycho somehow got a hold of my phone, hacked it or some shit, and set this reminder to taunt me.

And now I—I have to check that trash before my little demon gets home.

He must have broken into our place while neither of us were home.

I close the reminder and check the time.

Twelve twenty-three. Thirty minutes left of the lunch break.

I’ll have to leave now and come up with an excuse for why I can’t finish my classes.

Snatching my jacket from the back of my chair, I sneak out of my office and storm past the halls until I’m out of the building. There’s a diminutive ray of hope within me that this is just a warning. That I’ll get home, pick out the trash, and find out nothing.

A bigger part of me has a bad feeling.

I’m out of breath by the time I storm through the door of our apartment, but I don’t stop until I’m in the kitchen, flipping open the cabinet doors under the sink.

A thin stream of electricity runs through my spine. My eyes focus on the big black plastic trash bag.

I crouch and pull it forward with one hand, adding another to drag it out.

Why is it so damn heavy?

Once I set the bag aside, I bend down by the sink and stare into the darkness of the cabinet. There’s another bag there. This one, slightly less heavy.

A strong disinfectant smell lingers in the cabinets when I’m done.

My focus returns to the bags. Two bags that are filled with cement, for all I know. I shouldn’t look inside. Everything in me tells me not to. That I should listen to that reminder, and get rid of them, dump them somewhere far, far away.

Drops of sweat form at the back of my neck, sliding down my spine.

There’s a sour taste in my mouth.

Nothing prepares me for the stench I release once I undo the knot on the first bag.

“Fuck!” I stumble back, landing on the floor, my hands bracing my fall.

The foul smell invades my mouth and causes me to cough it up.

“What in the world is that?”