The fluorescent lights in my office seem to pulse with unnatural intensity, each flicker sending tiny needles into my skull. I've been staring at the same spreadsheet for twenty minutes without processing a single number.
Something's wrong with me today.
I drag my sleeve across my forehead, surprised at how damp it comes away. It's not even hot in here, if anything, the office is running the AC too cold as usual. But my skin feels clammy, my stomach churning with a low-grade nausea I can't shake.
"Just Monday blues," I mutter to myself, reaching for my coffee. The ceramic mug feels abnormally heavy in my hand, and when I take a sip, the bitter liquid sends a wave of revulsion through me.
I set the mug down too hard, coffee sloshing over the edge onto a stack of papers. "Shit," I hiss, grabbing tissues from my desk drawer. As I mop up the mess, my hands won't stop trembling.
The symptoms stack up in my mind like falling dominoes. Irritability, anxiety, sweating, nausea, shaking. It's a constellation I know all too well, one that used to define my existence.
I laugh, a strange, awkward sound that echoes in my empty office. The realization hits me with startling clarity, these symptoms feel eerily similar to withdrawal. But that's impossible. I've been clean for a while now.
"Fuck," I whisper, rubbing my temples.
My thoughts drift to Summer, and suddenly I'm overwhelmed with an almost physical ache for her. It's absurd how much I miss her after just a few hours apart. Like my body craves her presence the way it once craved heroine.
Summer. Perfect, beautiful Summer. The way she looked this morning, curled against me in bed, her blonde hair spread across the pillow like spun gold. The warmth in her eyes when she kissed me goodbye.
I need to see her. Now.
My fingers fumble for my phone, trembling slightly as I scroll through my apps. I rarely use the surveillance app she installed, the one that connects to the cameras she set up throughout our apartment. I've always found it a bit invasive, but right now, I'm pathetically grateful for it.
The app loads, connecting to our home network. The main screen shows our living room and kitchen in crisp high definition. My eyes scan the familiar space, searching for Summer's figure, but the room is empty. Just her phone, sitting abandoned on the couch cushion.
That's odd.
I tap through to the other cameras. Empty. Bedroom. Empty. Bathroom. Empty.
A cold feeling spreads through my chest, entirely different from the sweats and tremors I've been experiencing all morning. Where is she?
I check the timestamp on the feed, it's live. This isn't old footage.
A sick feeling rises in my gut, and I'm hit with a thought so disturbing it makes me physically recoil from my desk. What if this isn't just missing Summer? What if these symptoms are actual withdrawal?
"No way," I mutter, but even as I deny it, something clicks into place.
I wipe my forehead again, this time more frantically. "Fuck... she wouldn't, would she?" But the question answers itself as I ask it.
My mind races back through the past week. That strange, warm contentment would wash over me at breakfast and dinner. The perfect, blissful feeling that only seemed to happen when I was with her. The way I'd feel slightly off at work, only to have everything magically right itself the moment I got home.
What if it wasn't love or forgiveness I was feeling? What if it wasn't emotional healing at all?
What if it was a high?
Bile rises in my throat, and I barely make it to my trash can before retching. Nothing comes up but coffee and acid, burning my throat as my body heaves. My hands shake worse than before as I straighten up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
With a newfound desperation, I turn back to my phone and pull up the surveillance app again. This time, I don't look for Summer, I look for evidence.
I scrub backwards through the footage from this morning, watching our breakfast in reverse. Then yesterday's. Then the day before. I scan through every meal we've shared this past week, my eyes narrowed and focused despite the pounding in my head.
There. Last Monday's breakfast. Summer pouring my orange juice, her body partially blocking the view. A slight movement of her wrist, something small disappearing into the glass before she stirs it with a spoon.
And there again for dinner. A soda sitting on the counter while I answer a phone call. Summer's back to the camera, but her reflection visible in the microwave door as she sprinkles something into my drink.
Every morning. Any time we eat lunch together. Every dinner. Each time, that same sleight of hand, so quick I would never have noticed if I wasn't specifically looking for it.
"Jesus Christ," I whisper, my voice cracking.
The evidence is undeniable. Summer has been drugging me. Consistently, methodically, with the precision of someone who knows exactly what they're doing. And I've been so out of it, so wrapped in that artificial warmth, that I never even suspected.
My stomach roils as the full weight of this betrayal crashes over me. I grip the edge of my desk until my knuckles turn white, fighting to stay upright as my world tilts on its axis.
I need to confront her. The thought pounds through my skull with each throb of my growing headache. This isn't just about the drugs, it's about what they represent. Is she poisoning me just to create dependency? Making me chemically reliant on her presence so I can't leave?
My mind spirals darker. What if this isn't about keeping me at all? What if her return was never about reconciliation? The thought slices through me like a blade of ice. She could be executing some elaborate revenge, punishment for letting her pay my debts with her body. Maybe she's methodically rebuilding everything just to watch me crumble when she destroys it all.
I stumble to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face as I stare at my reflection. The man looking back at me has bloodshot eyes.
"Adams? You okay in there?" TJ's voice filters through the door, concerned.
"Fine," I call back, my voice steadier than I feel. "Just... fighting something off."
When I return to my desk, I check the surveillance app again. Still empty. Where the hell is she?
I dial her number, listening to it ring repeatedly before going to voicemail. The sound of her voice on the recording, sweet, cheerful, normal, makes me want to throw my phone against the wall. But I'm not that dumb.
Before I fully register what I'm doing, I'm grabbing my keys and jacket, ignoring TJ's concerned questions as I stumble past his desk. I can't be here another second. I need answers.
The drive home is a blur of honking horns and red lights that I probably shouldn't have run. My hands won't stop shaking on the steering wheel, and sweat soaks through my shirt despite the air conditioning blasting at full power.
Suddenly, I'm standing at our apartment door, with no clear memory of the walk up the stairs. I fumble with my keys, dropping them twice before managing to get the door open.
"Summer?" I call out, my voice echoing through the empty apartment.
Just as I saw on the camera feed, she's nowhere to be found. Her phone sits abandoned on the sofa cushion, the screen dark and accusatory. The silence of the apartment feels oppressive, like it's hiding something from me.
"What the fuck is going on?" I mutter, snatching up her phone.
The device feels like evidence in my trembling hands. I press the power button, and the lock screen illuminates with a photo of us from last weekend, smiling like nothing was wrong. Like she wasn't poisoning me daily.
I tap in her birthday, 0417.
Access denied.
I try her mother's birthday, 0923.
Wrong again.
My stomach churns as sweat drips down my back. There's one more obvious choice. I type in my own birthday, 1030.
The phone unlocks instantly, revealing her home screen.
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, bitter and hollow. "Of course," I whisper. "Of course it's my birthday."
Even her phone password is calculated to make me feel special, important. Just another thread in the web she's been weaving around me.
My hands tremble as I open Summer's phone, scrolling through her recent conversations. I notice two strange things immediately.
First, she called her brother Jonah about an hour and a half ago. The call lasted nearly ten minutes. What could she possibly need to discuss with her brother right now?
Second, there's a text conversation with a number I don't recognize. The area code is local, but the number isn't saved in her contacts. Something about this feels ominous, like I'm about to cross a threshold I can't return from.
I tap on it, and as the messages load, my stomach heaves violently. I barely make it to the trash can before vomiting, my entire body convulsing as I empty what little is left in my stomach.
It's Taevion. She's been texting fucking Taevion today.
"Hey T, it's Summer," her first message reads, timestamp 9:17 AM, right after I left for work. "Looking to pick up some heroin for my husband. Can we meet at Riverside Park today?"
My vision blurs as I read his response: "Well, well, well, look whos crawled back. Was my blacked whore missing her Daddy? Sick of being kicked out of the house?"
Summer's reply makes my skin crawl: "Just need product. Scott's been having a rough time."
"Bitch, you think I'm just handing over H because you asked nice?" Taevion's message drips with contempt. "You know how this works. I want that pretty mouth wrapped around my cock first. Been too long since I stretched that throat."
I can barely read through the nausea, but I force myself to continue.
"Whatever you want, T," Summer replied.
"Damn, still the same desperate slut," Taevion wrote. "Meet me by the old pavilion at 1. Wear that short skirt I like. No panties. Bring cash too."
Summer's last message. "On my way."
The timestamp shows she's been gone for over an hour. The park is only a fifteen-minute walk away.
I drive there immediately. I scan the empty pavilion, disappointment settling in my chest. The park stretches before me, unnervingly quiet for a Monday afternoon. A couple of kids kick a soccer ball in the distance, but there's no sign of Summer or Taevion.
My stomach twists as I make my way toward the public restrooms, the last place I haven't looked. The men's room is empty, just the drip of a leaky faucet echoing against grimy tile. I hesitate outside the women's restroom, feeling ridiculous but too desperate to care.
"Hello?" I call out, pushing the door open slightly. "Summer?"
Nothing but silence answers me. I let the door swing shut, ignoring the strange look from a jogger passing by.
As I head back toward the parking lot, I catch fragments of conversation from two women on a nearby bench.
"...can't believe those monsters would just kidnap them..."
"...looked kind of sus to me..."
"...druggies..."
My pulse quickens. They could be talking about anyone, but my mind immediately jumps to Taevion. His house isn't far from here, a rundown bungalow where I used to hand over cash with shaking hands.
Before I can second-guess myself, I'm back in my car, engine rumbling to life. This is stupid. Dangerous, even. But I need to know.
I drive on autopilot, muscle memory guiding me through neighborhoods I swore I'd never visit again. Taevion's street looks exactly the same, cracked sidewalks, chain-link fences, porch lights that never seem to work.
I park across from his house, killing the engine but leaving the keys in the ignition. What am I even doing here? What do I expect to find?
The front door opens, and my heart stops. Summer steps out, her blonde hair catching the afternoon sun. She's alone, a large backpack slung over her shoulder. It looks heavy, bulging with something I can't identify from this distance.
She hasn't seen me yet, her attention focused on adjusting the straps of her backpack. Then she looks up. Our eyes meet across the street, and her face transforms with shock and horror.
"Scott?" Her voice carries clearly through my open window.
I don't wait to hear more. Don't wait for explanations or excuses. The engine roars back to life under my trembling hands, and I peel away from the curb, tires squealing in protest.
In my rearview mirror, I catch one last glimpse of her standing frozen on Taevion's front steps, her mouth open in a perfect circle of surprise with her hands on her head and tears in her eyes.