Masked Possession. Alana Delacroix

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      Saving the final file, she shut down the computer and grabbed her purse. It wasn’t until the alarm was set and she was in the main lobby that she realized how late it was.

      Night. Darkness.

      A wave of panic overtook her. This intense fear of the night hadn’t left since her attack, no matter what she tried. Feet frozen to the marble floor of the lobby, she gazed out into the dark. JDPR was located on a side street, off King Street West. Only a block away, hipsters were drinking fifteen-dollar cocktails made from lovingly crafted artisanal liqueurs and taking pictures of their food. Look, there are streetlights. Cars. People walking around. Nothing can hurt you. The bad men? They’re still in Washington. They can’t get you here.

      The pep talk didn’t work. Her rational brain was useless against the warnings shrieking out from her nervous system. Out there in the dark were killers, cruel men with bright knives and cold eyes, waiting for her to walk out.

      “I can’t do it,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

      No, she would try. Caro tried to bring back that feeling of triumph, of composure she had felt after the call with Eric. I can do it. One step. Take one step.

      She forced her foot forward and the second it hit the floor, she began to pant, dark spots rising up to obscure her vision. I’m dying. I can’t breathe. I’m having a heart attack.

      Caro scrambled back into the safety of her office. She couldn’t. If she went one more foot toward the inky blackness that lay beyond the lobby windows, she would die. She knew it. Once she was back inside, away from the terrors of the night, she sank to her knees and sobbed, her fingers tracing the raised scars that lined her stomach. Maybe Iverson had won, after all.

      Dashing her tears away, she curled on the floor, put her jacket over top of her, and waited for sleep.