You Only Die Twice - By Christopher Smith Page 0,1

core.

She also was thirsty. Her mouth was caked with the coppery taste of dried blood and she wished she was near a water source, if only so she could rinse out her mouth.

How had she gotten here? She closed her eyes, thought back hard, and the pieces of a puzzle that was lost to her yesterday started to form.

Her last memory was spending time with her friend Patty at their favorite local bar, The Grind, doing shots to celebrate Patty’s thirtieth birthday, which she called a landmark event because she said she never thought she’d make it to twenty-seven. Not with her luck.

Cheryl rarely drank, but Patty coaxed her into joining her because it was her birthday. Not wanting to spoil her friend’s fun, Cheryl went along with the celebration because Patty was a lifelong friend and after all she had been through in this town―and all she had done for Cheryl many years ago, when she died the first time―she deserved a fun night out. Together, they did several shots of tequila even though Cheryl knew she’d pay for it the next day.

But not like this. This didn’t make sense. Why was she here? Who brought her here?

She needed to get up. Needed to get out of here. She remained on her stomach and carefully lifted one of her legs behind her. It was fine. She moved her other leg, and though it hurt like hell, it was clear that nothing was broken. She went to lift up her right hand and it was at that moment that she saw the cell phone strapped to it with a rubber band.

Confused, she stared at it.

Then it buzzed to life.

Startled, she lifted her head off the forest floor and some of the pine needles that were stuck to her face tumbled off. With an effort, she sat up, swiped away the rest of the needles with her free hand, and the cell phone buzzed again.

She tore it off and tossed it away. She looked around the forest and could see steam rising up in those areas where the sun made its way through the trees to warm the cool, wet ground. She felt as if she was being watched. She listened and heard leaves falling from the maple and birch trees. A light breeze touched her back.

And the phone buzzed again, vibrating just ahead of her on the ground. It seemed to tremble, not unlike she was now.

And Cheryl Dunning of Bangor, Maine, who for ten years had worked as an underpaid secretary in the English Department at the University of Maine and who had never made it out of college for reasons only few knew because of the deep shame that had crippled her for years, knew she was in worse trouble than she ever imagined.

CHAPTER FOUR

It was curiosity that pulled her in.

Moving through the pain, she reached out a hand to grab the phone and when she did, she saw the cuts and bruises on her forearm, which made her pull back as her stomach sank with worry.

What did the rest of her look like? She was still in her bar clothes. A tight white T-shirt that showed off her curves, tight blue jeans she picked up for seven dollars at the bargain bin at The Gap, and boots that Patty said were made “for getting any man you want. And you need a man, Cheryl. God, do you ever. It’s been, like, forever since you dated someone. At the very least, those boots with those heels should get you in the back seat of someone’s car. And praise Jesus for that.”

As if that’s what Cheryl was seeking. She hadn’t been with anyone since that night and Patty knew why. She knew Cheryl was emotionally scarred, but Patty had suffered her own troubles and knew that life nevertheless had to move forward.

“There are two things you can do, Cheryl,” Patty once said. “You can live in your past and die by it. Or you can let your past inform your present so you can have some semblance of a future. That’s therapist talk, but it’s true. Your past won’t go away, but you can do your best to learn from it and move forward.”

Over the years, other lectures came, which Cheryl tolerated because she knew her friend was just worried about her. But after what happened to Cheryl during her junior year in college, which is the reason she never finished college, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be