Truly, Madly, Like Me - Jo Watson Page 0,12
. What . . . CRAP!” I raced to the other side of the road, tripping over my feet as I went, and took cover behind a tree. My terrified heart thumped in my chest, pouring pure adrenalin into my veins. I stuck my head around the tree and looked back at my car. The faint overhead light was illuminating the horror in the backseat.
“You!” I hissed, squinting at the dog who’d clearly hitched a bloody ride with me. And he was not a dog you wanted hitching rides. This dog looked like it came straight from the fiery pits of hell.
“Rrruuufff,” Satan’s snaggletoothed helper yapped back at me.
“Out! Shoo. Go away. Out.” I waved my arm at the thing, but he just cocked his head to the side and looked at me out of his one eye. God, he was an ugly mutt. Not something you would ever post on social media. Those influencers who post photos of their dogs and cats are smart. People like dogs. People like cats. They like dogs chasing their tails and getting confused when their owners disappear behind blankets. They like cats that fall off things and jump when they see cucumbers. But this dog . . . No! Nobody would like him, least of all me.
“Get out of here,” I shouted across the road, but he didn’t move.
“OUT!” I yelled, and this time, he climbed out the car. He stood there. Staring at me. Still as a statue.
Fear filled me. Tearful, panicky fear.
“Go away!” I jumped out from behind the tree and flapped my arms, hoping that would intimidate him. But it didn’t. He was the biggest, blackest, meanest-looking devil dog I’d ever seen. If this dog was a person, he’d be one of those mean, tattooed-faced guys from a late-night mugshot—not that hot one that went viral and became a model—but the kind that if you looked into his eyes for too long, your blood curdled.
“What do you want from me?” I whimpered at him.
“Everything okay?” I heard a voice and whipped around. An older couple were looking at me.
“Who were you talking to, dear?” the old lady asked.
“That dog.” I pointed. “It won’t leave me alone.”
They both turned in the direction I was pointing. Their faces were still for a while, and then they frowned.
“What dog, dear?” It was the little crouched-over man who spoke this time.
“That one.” I turned and looked at the empty spot in the road where Snaggletooth had been only seconds ago, but he was gone. Again! I looked up and down the street like I had last time. Nothing.
“He was just there!” I said defensively. I didn’t want them thinking I was seeing things.
They smiled at me. “Good night,” the old woman said, before they both walked away.
I turned back to my car. The backdoor was still open, but the dog was gone. And for the second time that day, I had the same thought.
Was there even a dog? Was I hallucinating? And if I was, what did it mean? And, oh crap, I so needed Google right now to find out.
CHAPTER 6
I woke up the next morning, rolled over and reached for my phone. I yawned, all warm and comfy and cuddly. I had slept well and felt relaxed as I lay in the bed. I opened Facebook, my usual morning ritual, to flip through the news while I woke. It’s important for someone like me, a public figure, to know what’s going on in the world, so I can make appropriate social commentary when necessary. Like when Notre Dame Cathedral burned down and I changed my profile picture to have that French flag filter. I scrolled a little, but nothing new came up on my feed. I kept scrolling. Still nothing new. I had seen this a few days ago. Why was my news feed not updating?
“Shit!” I sat up in bed and looked around. I really was here. This wasn’t a bad dream . . . I was in Springdorp, in the middle of the desert, in the only hotel in town, with no internet. I sighed loudly and flopped back down in bed. And then I remembered why I was here, and that same feeling hit me in my stomach. Icy at first. Then hot. I climbed out of bed and paced a few times.
My morning routine was disturbed, and I felt wildly unsettled. There were certain things I did in the morning when I woke up: check Facebook first, then