CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Andee

CONSCIOUSNESS COMES ONE aching, throbbing, moment at a time. Before I open my eyes, I know something is wrong, but can't recall what. I shiver and reach to pull the blanket close, but find none. I roll from my back to my side and realize I'm lying on something hard and unforgiving. The floor? I open my eyes, startled by the hues of pink, orange, and gray splashed across the expanse of sky visible through the windows in front of me.

I lift my head, but it pounds me back down. I cover my eyes with my hands as memories of the night before flood my mind. When I dare to open my eyes again, I see Sam curled near me, his body wrapped around the gun on the floor next to me, as though protecting me from . . . myself.

"Oh, God!"

The exclamation isn't an expletive, but rather a recognition.

I force myself to sit up and take stock. I feel like I've been through a battle. My sinuses are swollen, my mouth and throat are dry, my head and teeth ache, and worst of all, every single muscle in my body is screaming. "Oh . . . please tell me I don't have to call the massage chick again."

The plea, I realize, is my first honest prayer.

Stiff, I struggle to get up. I roll over onto my hands and knees. But before I push myself up, I reach for Sam and run my hand through the fur on his back. He stretches, stands, and arches his back. His blue eyes accuse.

"I know. I'm sorry."

I push myself up, then bend and take the gun off the floor. I take a slow walk to my bedroom, where I replace the revolver in my nightstand drawer. I look at the bedside clock and make a decision. I reach for the phone on the nightstand and dial Cassidy's number.

She answers after the first ring. "Morning, Andee."

"Hey, Cass. Take the day off."

"What?"

"We're taking the day off. Don't come in. Do something . . . fun. Oh, but first, call and reschedule my appointments for the day."

She's quiet. "Are you okay? Are you sick? You know it's Tuesday, right?"

"I'm . . . fine. I know it's Tuesday. And we're both taking a paid day off."

"Is this Andee Bell?"

"Very funny, Cass. Have a nice day. I'll see you tomorrow."

I hang up and go into the bathroom, turn on the shower, and then take off my robe and hang it back in the closet. When I come out of the closet, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I see long, red scabs on my arms. The marks left by my own nails.

I lower my head and look at the floor—the realization of what I almost did sobers me. I lift my arm and place my hand over my chest and feel the beating of my heart. I'm still here, but the ache, the desperation, also remains.

It's time to make a few changes.

I step into the shower followed by the realization that change won't come without a fight. A fight with myself.

"I'll need help . . ."

I whisper not to myself.

But to God.