Damaged by Alex Kava

By Alex Kava

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She would have laughed, too, if it wasn’t so close to being true. ” This time there had been no pause, no hesitation. A partner backing up another partner. “Let me know if I can help. With the case,” he added, allowing her cover. ” It was sort of a term of endearment, one colleague to another. After all, Scott didn’t mind that some people—including his own wife—sometimes called him a death merchant. Sounded sexier than funeral director or even mortician. He watched the back door to the hotel from the deck bar.

Herself trapped inside an ice coffin. A takeout container left on the counter of a truck stop, seeping blood. Rows and rows of Mason jars filled with floating body parts. The problem was that those nightmare images were not the creation of an overactive or fatigued imagination but, rather, were memories, snapshots of very real experiences. The compartments Maggie had spent years carefully constructing in her mind—the places where she locked away the horrific snapshots—had started to leak. Just like Gwen had predicted.

She hadn’t been able to sleep through the night for months now, waking every hour on the hour as if some alarm in her head triggered it. The sleep deprivation was bound to catch up with her. She had tried all the recommended remedies. An evening run to exhaust her body. No exercise at all after seven. Soaking in a warm bath. Drinking a glass of wine. When wine didn’t work, warm milk. She tried reciting meditation chants. Cutting out caffeine. Reading. Listening to CDs of nature sounds. Using new therapeutic pillows.

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