I can’t seem to make myself reach for the envelope and my gaze goes to my image in the mirror, to my long white-blond hair I’ve worn draped around my shoulders tonight rather than tied at my nape, and done so as a proud reflection of the heritage of my Swedish mother I’m tired of denying. On wobbly knees and four-inch black strappy heels that had made me feel sexy only minutes before and clumsy now, I step forward and press my palms to the counter. Not when I’m quite certain danger is knocking on my door. There is pain and heartache, and the loss of all I once had and will never know again.įighting a certain meltdown, I swallow hard and shove away the gut-wrenching memories. The sound of blistering screams shreds my nerves. I fight the flashback I haven’t had in years, but I am already right there in it, in the middle of a nightmare. Suddenly, the room begins to shift and everything goes gray. Fear and dread slam into me, shooting adrenaline through my body. I step out of the stall inside the bathroom of Manhattan’s Metropolitan Museum, and the laughter and joy of the evening’s charity event I’ve been enjoying fades away. My name is all that is written on the plain white envelope taped to the mirror.
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