25
Emma
I take in the woman, trying to figure out who she is even as we fight. I see her braided hair and her shaved sideburns, I see her pinched, ratty face and her twisted lips, I see her wide, bloodshot eyes, I see the suit she wears, even the shiny black shoes. I’ve never before laid eyes on this woman. I know that for sure.
But then I see the needle in her hand. I know it’s a needle full of heroin. My subconscious turns over and over, cogs grind, and it all clicks into place. This woman—whoever the hell she is—was the one who drugged me. I’m out here in the middle of nowhere. It’s not a coincidence that she’s here at the same time as me. No, she followed me. And if she followed me here with a needle, isn’t it possible, likely, that she followed me to the boat with a needle?
A scre
