Persistence of Vision

  ***

  After what seemed like hours, Maggie reached the little bar. Jonah was leaning against the side of the squat building, looking down the street for her. Not until she was almost in front of him did he actually see her, so thick was the foot traffic.

  “Hey, Maggs.” He straightened. “There you are.”

  “I told you it would take a while.”

  “Well, you’re here now.” He reached out and took her hand. “Vicki’s waiting. Let’s go.”

  Maggie groaned, and Jonah turned back toward her, arching an eyebrow.

  “Hey. You promised you’d be nice.”

  “I have nothing against your girlfriend, Jonah, but as your sister I call dibs on your mercy.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m gonna pass out if I don’t get to sit for five minutes.” She nodded toward the bar. “Could we grab a drink?”

  Jonah looked doubtful then glanced back the way he’d come.

  “Vicki isn’t going anywhere, and we won’t get a table in the restaurant for a while, right? Please?”

  He smiled. “I never could say no to those puppy-dog eyes.” Taking her hand, Jonah led her toward the door.

  The bar was crowded, but they walked in at the right time just as three stools opened up. They took two of them and ordered mixed drinks. As the bar tender disappeared down the counter, Maggie swiveled around on her stool to look over the room. She found herself wondering about the people in it. Every person in Vegas was there for a different reason. Maggie’s was boring. She wondered if anyone else’s was better.

  “What’s going on in that head of yours?” Jonah called.

  The crowd was speaking in normal voices, but a crowd this large meant Jonah had to shout to be heard. He’d turned to survey the room as well. Just then their drinks arrived.

  “How was the Luxor exhibit?”

  “Great.”

  “What?”

  “Great!”

  Jonah grinned at her, and they didn’t talk anymore. They could catch up in the quiet of the restaurant when they’d finished here.

  Sipping her drink, Maggie let her head fall back, savoring the calming of her adrenaline and the chance to be off her feet, along with the comforting feeling of her big brother beside her.

  She tried not to think about the long walk to the restaurant or making small talk with Vicki or…

  Maggie was gasping, clawing for the surface. She couldn’t breathe. Everything was blackness.

  A flash of purple light. A rock formation. Brown boots walking across a room at eye level. Two large hands covering hers. A hand with an ugly black burn on the back. A woman standing in front of a broken lighthouse. Blood on her hands. A whisper of a voice. What was he saying? Gasping, clawing for air.

  But she was breathing, so she wasn’t drowning, but still clawing, trying to get out of something or away from something. Or someone. With a final gasp, she clawed her way to consciousness.

  Her eyes shot open. There was a white wall in front of her, and she couldn’t move her body. It was like she wasn’t entirely awake: she was totally aware but couldn’t move a muscle. It wouldn’t be so terrifying if she could remember anything before this moment. Where was she? How had she gotten here?

  Her heart pounded in her chest so hard it was painful. It was unnatural for her pulse to be going that fast when she had just been unconscious. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and her throat was raw.

  Feeling gradually returned to her body. When she could turn her head, she looked to the right. She was in a hotel room, one she didn’t recognize. It certainly wasn’t hers. Hers had grey curtains, and these were a deep, velvet red.

  She was lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. The wall she’d seen upon waking was actually the ceiling.

  She sat up slowly, fighting a terrifying sense of vertigo all the way, and looked around. Her feet were pointed toward a window where the drapes were partially closed. It was dark outside. A single bedside lamp lit the sparsely furnished room. It might have been cozy if it weren’t so…creepy. Putting a hand to her forehead, which was pounding almost as painfully as her chest, she tried to remember.

  A flash of purple light. A rock formation. Brown boots walking across a room at eye level. Two large hands covering hers. A hand with an ugly black burn on it. A woman standing in front of a broken lighthouse. Blood on her hands. A whisper of a voice. Gasping, clawing for air.

  Were those memories or just dreams? She couldn’t tell. Whatever those flashes meant, a sickening feeling flooded through her when she thought of them. They meant something dreadful, something harmful.

  Jonah! Where was Jonah? Swiveling her head around, which she instantly regretted, she saw him. He was lying on the ground parallel to her.

  His eyes were wide open. She wanted to scream, sure he was dead, but didn’t have control of her vocal chords. Then she saw his chest moving. Relief flooded her. When she summoned the strength to toss a lead-filled hand to his neck, his pulse was racing faster than hers.

  Not knowing what it meant but afraid that such unnatural cardiovascular activity meant a medical crisis, she looked for a phone. There was one up on the desk. Dragging her body up beside the bed, she fumbled for the receiver and clumsily dialed 911.