![]() I’m going to die and I won’t even see it coming. ![]() ![]() I fumble around, slapping the concrete wall to find the light switch, but when I flip it, nothing happens. I don’t even want to think it now, but my brain conjures it anyway. He’s the frigging boogeyman, whispered about in the shadows but never mentioned in polite company, almost as if saying his name will make him appear. There’s no way I want to be in the dark with this voice. I’ve only heard it once before, through the battered wood of the same locked door I just barged past, but it was delivering threats I didn’t understand, not asking a question in that cool, controlled manner. The deep voice that comes out of the dark chills me to the very marrow of my bones. Summoning the same iron will it has taken to dig this company out of the trenches, I grasp the handle, yank the door open, and fling myself inside, attempting the element of surprise. My dead husband’s ghost better not be inside, or heaven help me, I’ll kill Brett again myself. I repeat that truth like a chant until my heart slows to a semi-normal pace. It’s barely hanging on, even after four generations of clinging to life making Irish whiskey in New Orleans. And my parents are seven hundred miles away in Florida, living it up as retirees on the monthly payments I send them from the dismal profits of the distillery. ![]() I freeze outside the door to my locked office and stare at the handle like it’s tainted with anthrax. ![]()
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