You Only Die Twice - By Christopher Smith Page 0,2

with a man again. Not after what she went through.

She wondered about the boots and their heels. If she had to run, how would she manage to do so with these on her feet? The idea of it worried her almost as much as that phone, the surface of which now gleamed because it had captured a piece of the sun and was tossing it back toward the sky.

She went for it and grabbed it. She turned it over in her hands and nearly screamed when it vibrated again, which confirmed her belief that somewhere in these woods, someone was watching her. Toying with her. She didn’t understand why, but someone was nearby and given her current condition, it was clear that they either planned to hurt her more than they already had, or they were going to kill her.

Why?

She had no idea why. Maybe there wasn’t a “why.” Maybe it just was, particularly if she was dealing with madness, which she’d dealt with before.

She wished she could remember more of what happened last night. Did someone slip something into one of their shots when they weren’t looking? And if someone did, who did it? It had been only her and Patty last night, hadn’t it? She didn’t remember speaking to anyone but the bartender, and even that was brief. The Grind had a packed house. He was busy. Whenever she or Patty engaged him, it was just to order another round.

She was thinking of Patty and wondering where she was when the phone vibrated again in her hand. It was an iPhone, dented on its side, scratched on its surface, but one of the newer models. She had one herself, an older version, so at least she was familiar with how to use it.

She pressed the button below the screen and saw that while there were no voice messages, there were eight text messages. She clicked on the icon and read the first. “You have no ability to make a call. You have no ability to send a text. Maps have been disabled. Tracking has been disabled. Browser access has been disabled. Are we clear? This phone has been hacked and it serves as my line of contact to you. Here’s your first directive. Select the iPhotos icon and look through the photos.” She went through the other seven messages and they all said the same thing, though the last one was more urgent. “Select the iPhotos icon, Cheryl. Do it now. Don’t anger me.”

Whoever it was knew her name. How did they know her name? Did she know this person?

The phone buzzed again and another text appeared on the screen. She opened it. “I really don’t want to kill you, Cheryl. At least not now. So, open the fucking icon.”

Nervously, she clicked out of the text window and selected iPhotos. What she saw when the application opened was a series of events. The photos began at The Grind. The quality was grainy, as if no flash was used, which made sense because people would have noticed a flash, including her and Patty.

Still, there was enough light to see that she was having a shot of tequila with Patty at the bar. She swiped to the next image. Now, she and Patty were dancing in the center of the dance floor, a crush of people around them, some with their hands lifted above their heads. She stared at the photo. She had no recollection of dancing last night.

She swiped to the next photo and saw that she and Patty were back at the bar and downing another shot. She was sweaty and laughing. Patty was bent over and appeared to be in hysterics. The bartender, a good-looking man with dark hair and a masculine face, was looking at them in amusement.

She swiped to the next photo, and this time it was just her, alone, standing at the bar. Patty was nowhere in sight. Looking at herself, she could see her insecurities stamped on her face, but then she always was uncomfortable when she was alone. Her face looked grim. Her arms were folded in front of her. She was looking off to her left, which is where the restrooms were. The crowd was noticeably thinner. The night was winding down.

Swipe.

Patty was back, this time with a man. Just as she herself was leaning against the bar for support, Patty was leaning against this stranger for the same reason. Her arm was draped over his neck. He was big, younger