The first detail I notice is the strange pattern in the floor tile.

Uneven, a deep red line like a giant tear drop, fat and thick, cuts into the boring tan linoleum. For a crappy bar, it’s a sophisticated touch. As I step on the rounded edge of the red, I slip.

Wait a minute.

That’s not decorative tile.

It’s blood.

My foot slips forward, my other knee bending and slamming hard against the ceramic floor. I scream, sliding a few inches forward, my purse flying out of my hands and turning upside down, showering me with the contents. A tiny tampon lands in the blood, followed by assorted coins, my lipstick, a few receipts, and a breath mint.

My phone slams into the bathroom counter and pings my cheek, the crack of the corner of the phone against my eye socket making me gasp in pain.

My foot hits something big but yielding. Not a toilet.

I look down as I struggle to sit up.

To find Tara laying on the floor, up against the wall, both wrists slit from hand to elbow, blood pouring out of her like someone is pumping it.

“Tara!” I scream, looking at her eyes as she twitches. They’re vacant but open, her head at such an odd angle, I’d think someone had snapped it if she weren’t moving.

The blood is viscous, unforgiving as I move toward her, half sliding, crawling through it to grab her arm. I press my hand against her wrist, then start screaming “HELP!”

The door to the bathroom opens so fast, I hear it slam into the wall, making a strange cracking sound. “Jane!” Silas comes running into the bathroom but stops cold at the blood on the floor.

“Help me! She’s slit her arms!”

He speaks into his earpiece, ordering an ambulance and backup, then drops to his knees, heedless of the blood. “Get pressure on those wounds. Now.” Stripping off his suit coat, he lays it along the length of one of Tara’s arms and presses, hard.

I take my sweater off from around my waist and do the same. As I press into her, I feel a fast beat coming, slamming hard.

“I feel her pulse,” I whisper, relieved, looking at Silas for confirmation, for approval, for salvation.

For everything.

“That’s your pulse,” he says quietly. “I’m not finding hers.”

“What do we do? CPR?”

“We do what we’re doing now, Jane. Medics will be here any minute.”

“Medics?”

“I mean paramedics. They’re coming.”

I’m frantic, blood in my hair, Silas’s coat and legs covered in it, our bodies thrown wholly into pushing against Tara’s arms, trying to stem the tide. A five-alarm bell is going off in my head.

“Why would she do this? We were just talking a few minutes ago! She was fine! Scared, but fine.”

“Shhhh. Focus on the pressure.”

“I can’t feel a pulse!” Panic rushes in like a swarm of bees. “Oh my God, Silas, she can’t bleed out! Tara! Tara!” I straddle her arm, my hurt knee not functioning, screaming with pure, bone-shredding pain. I say her name over and over, as if shouting it will magically stop the bleeding, as if she just needs some common sense to get through.

As if she’s not dying beneath me.

Footsteps clack on the tile and stop as Silas barks orders. Then he’s standing, pulling at my shoulders, lifting me up under my arms, carefully navigating the crowded restroom. Silas gets me to the main doorway and gives me a stern look, opening his mouth to say something.

Flash!

A bright light makes us both turn as white pinpoints crowd my vision, but I know what just happened.

Paparazzi. Bottom feeders looking for the next sale.

Silas charges the guy, but it’s too late. He tosses his camera to someone behind him, who takes off at full speed. Silas plows into the original picture taker, who doesn’t even bother fighting back. He goes limp but shouts for someone to take pictures.

Untangling himself from the jerk, Silas quickly stands, then looks at me, his expression changing to dismay.

“Come on,” he says, pulling my hand, quickly snaking through the bar to the back. We rush past offices and storerooms filled with kegs and brightly colored liquor boxes. The smell of rotting garbage fills my nose as we burst into the sunlight outside.

We’re in an alley, next to the dumpsters.

The black SUV screeches to a halt. Duff appears out of nowhere. “Get in,” he snaps. Silas physically lifts me and throws me in, climbing in behind me, the car ripping out of there backwards, Silas’s door still open. We’re barreling down the alley in reverse, and all I can do is scream.

And scream

Really scream, Silas on the phone shushing me, talking to Drew in a loud voice over my hoarse, nonsensical sounds.

I can’t stop, even if I’m ripping my vocal cords to shreds. Once I stop, the reality sets in.

Tara killed herself.

While I sat there in the booth drinking my cocktail, Tara was despondent, pulling out a sharp blade inside that bathroom and ending her life.

What kind of friend am I? Ex friend, but still. How did I not find her in time? How could she do something so grisly so quickly? What if–

“Jane. Jane. JANE!” Silas shouts, his hand on my throat, pressing lightly.

I stop making sounds and stare at him, wide-eyed, not really seeing what was in front of me but instead seeing Tara’s body.

“That was Drew. He was calling because the lab courier just died in a single-car accident.”

“The who? The what?”

“Lab courier. The person delivering some of your blood.”

I stare at my hands, which are rust-colored, covered in coagulating blood. “Whose blood? This isn’t mine. It’s Tara’s.” My face goes cold, so cold, my hands starting to tingle. I’m spinning on the inside, completely frozen on the outside, and the taste of copper and something savage is making me start to retch.

I move to open a window. They’re locked.

“OPEN A WINDOW!” I scream, furious I can’t push the button.

“If Tara’s killers are after us, we can’t leave an opening for a bullet.” Silas’s voice is matter-of-fact, too calm and collected.

Too perfect.

“Increase the air,” he says to the driver, who complies, the sound from the vents getting louder, a blast of icy air hitting my shins.

“Tara, Tara, oh my God, Tara,” I moan, rocking back and forth, groaning her name. I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop. I look down at my legs and see blood seeping into my shoe, the top of my foot coated in it. I wiggle my toes and feel the viscosity of it.

Silas’s phone buzzes. He takes the call.

“Yes. News reports already? Fuck. No problem. What? No. Definitely not. No, Drew. I have proof. Ironclad.” I hear Drew say the word “good,” then the rest is babble.

Silas finally says, “I’ll check out social media later. Right now, we need to get her secured.” Drew speaks. Silas looks surprised. “There? You think it’s safe? There was paparazzi on the property when we were there before.” Drew says a few words. Silas nods. “Okay. Will do.”

Click.

“She was just alive! Telling me all about… oh, shit. All about how people were trying to kill her.”

“People,” Silas repeats.

Something in his tone shakes me out of my crazed state. “You think I did it? You think I killed Tara back there? You were right there, Silas. I was in that bathroom for a few seconds before I started screaming. Do you seriously think I’m that–that I–fuck you!” I scream.

“No. I know you didn’t do it.”

My phone buzzes. I pick it up, swipe, and look at a text.

Oh my God, Jane, what happened? It’s Lindsay. She attached a link to a news site.

Stupidly, I click it.

It’s a picture of me, covered in blood.