Emily Madrigo
The hotel room still carried the heavy scent of s*x and cheap cologne when I stepped out of the shower, steam clinging to the mirror in thick clouds and making everything feel slightly unreal, like I was moving through someone else’s life rather than my own.
My hair dripped cold water down my back in slow, steady drops, and the towel I’d wrapped around myself felt too thin, too temporary, as though it could slip away at any moment and leave me exposed in every way that mattered.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand because it wouldn’t stop buzzing, the vibration rattling against the wood like an impatient warning I couldn’t ignore any longer.
I saw the unknown number and felt the first real twist of fear in my stomach, the kind that settles deep and stays, but I answ
