I wake up in a sweat, my alarm having pulled me from the nightmare of the apparition. The alarm is loud enough to wake me but further away than usual. Where am I? Oh, that's right. I fell asleep on the couch. I let out a little giggle, refold the throw blanket and place it back in its rightful spot. I stretch for a good 30 seconds and then make my way into the bedroom, where I whack off the alarm. It reads 7:02. Time to get ready for work. Friday, the day that I turn in my weekly article for Sunday's paper. Another day, another — penny. Hahaha.

I walk back through the living room and into the kitchen, glancing over at my makeshift studio in the corner. If there was one good thing about my job, it was that most of the work can be done from home. And that usually gives me ample time to work on my art. I am a fast writer, after all and writing is my job but painting is absolutely my passion.

While I make myself a sugary bowl of cereal, I imagine painting, instead of going to work today. Again, I look over at my easel and my canvases and my bins upon bins of paints and supplies. Watercolor. Charcoal. Oil. Enamel. And, last but not least, my absolute favorite. Acrylic. Most of my work was done in acrylic paint, except for the occasional charcoal sketch. I love to paint everything and everyone that I see and meet. But my favorite thing to paint is nature. I love to walk through the park with my sketchbooks and some pencils, creating a replica of nature on paper. Nature is the exact reason why my "art studio" is set up next to the only window in the living room. Inspiration.

Almost finished with my breakfast, I find myself staring out the window, taking in the brick buildings and carefully placed trees. The cracked sidewalks and fenced-in yards. The telephone poles and the wires that string from them. It looks beautiful outside today. I reach across the small table that sits in a weird spot between the living room and the kitchen, and grab my somewhat-new Dell laptop. I quickly check the weather. High 71. Low 53. I pull up the article I've been writing.

Bellevue Mayor's Sex Scandal With Secretary

I skim it for last minute corrections and send it to my work email, along with a few pictures that I found. I slam the laptop shut, by accident, with a little too much force. I'm sure it's fine.

Time to get dressed. A band t-shirt, jeans and my favorite converse. One of the pros of working for a newsroom is that you don't have to dress fancy. It's all about the writing. I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Before I leave, I grab my favorite faux leather jacket, just in case it gets a little chilly. It sits perched on the back of one of the chairs in the kitchen/dining room, where it always sits. Then I turn off all the lights, which are still on from the night before, and grab my keys to head out the door. Locking the door behind me, I head over to my assigned parking space and jump into my piece of shit car. '80 AMC Pacer. It might be the only car I've ever owned but I know enough about cars to know that it sucks. Trust me, just because it was on Wayne's World, doesn't mean it's a good car; that's what I thought too.

After a short drive, I enter the tiny newsroom, feet shuffling all around me. I have no idea how so many people can fit into such a small space and 98% probably don't even know my name. Likewise. I make my way over to my tiny brown desk. There isn't much here in terms of photos of family or pieces of memorabilia. I never decorated my desk like some of my coworkers. There is a desktop computer with a keyboard and mouse. That's about it. Oh, and my mouse pad is the same one that was here when I was hired. A generic mouse pad with the company's name on it. Allied National. We are part of a larger corporation, one that owns a few newspapers around the country. At least we get healthcare. Crappy healthcare but healthcare nonetheless. No dental though.

While the computer powers up, I head over to the cliche water cooler in the corner and grab a brittle paper cup. I forgot my water bottle at home. Dammit. I fill the little cup with ice-cold, metallic-tasting water and return to my desk. After typing in my password and pulling up my email, I print out the article. Print, you say? I know what you're thinking. What are we in the stone ages? I thought the same thing when I first started here, but my editor prefers to make his edits on paper. Not sure why but it definitely works for him.

I make my way over to Josh's desk. Josh Hale has been the editor for years, way before I started working here. He's 5'7ish. 160 pounds, give or take. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Nice jawline. Not really a snappy dresser though.

"Torres. Nice to see you. You finish that article on the mayor scandal?"

"Got it right here, boss."

"Perfect. Well, I'll proof it and get back to you with the corrections. If I can find some. You're one of our best writers so I expect a lot from you."

Is he coming onto me?

"Thanks Josh. That means a lot coming from you. Let me know what you think of the article and I'll fix the corrections so that you can get it sent to layout."

"Thanks Torres."

I've always wondered why everyone calls each other by their last name in a newsroom. Strange. Maybe I should start calling him Hale. Nah. I turn to go back to my desk when I see it. Not it, but her. Rowan. No, wait, Wilde. Either way, I spot my best friend in the whole world. Rowan Wilde. She doesn't see me but I wait, hoping she does. I haven't talked to her in a few days, despite the many texts that I've received. Well, up until last night when I lost my phone. Between writing the article and getting chased in the woods, I haven't really been in a talking mood. I haven't even had any time for my painting. But it's a little unfair that I haven't spoken to her. She is my best friend after all.

"Harper Torres!"

Oh no. She practically screamed my name. I should act like I didn't see her. Then maybe she won't think I'm ignoring her, which I kind of am. She may be my best friend, but she's a little intense sometimes. She's also kind of a busy body, a gossip. I want to trust her with everything that's been going on but I'm not sure if her mouth will stay shut.

"Harper!"

With the second yell, I turn around, almost pretending to wonder who was calling my name. Then, I see her again, and I put this huge smile on my face. All the while, thinking of an excuse as to why I haven't answered her texts.

"Oh, Rowan, I didn't even see you! What are you doing here?!"

"Just turning in my article. I had this cool piece about a robbery on third and I think it came out really good. What about you? What are you doing here? Why haven't you answered any of my texts?!"

"I just turned in an article too. And sorry about that. I've been super busy. With the article and my art and stuff. I also kinda lost my phone."

"You lost your phone? Well, why haven't you gotten a new one yet? Those are all pretty lame excuses. But I guess I can let it slide this time. That is, if you meet up with me later."

"Uh, I don't know. I wanted to finish up this painting I've been working on. And I thought I'd go for a jog through the park."

This was a complete lie. I have no intention of going back to the park after what happened last night.

"I was actually going to go to the gym from here. You should come. Then we can go get something to eat and you can tell me what you've been up to."

I think about it for a moment. I kind of owe it to her but the gym? Of course she has a gym membership. She's so fit and pretty. I guess I could go with her. I don't exactly have money to throw on lunch but I can probably convince her to come back to my place instead.

"Fine. We can go to the gym. But I need to stop by my apartment and get some clothes. I'm not exactly gym ready. And I don't know about lunch. We'll see." She rolls her eyes but seems super excited. I know it's not fair that I've been blowing her off. And at least I'm lucky enough to have someone that cares about me. We head towards the exit and out into the parking lot. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a small man, lingering near my car. I instantly feel my heart jump into my throat and my hands start to get sweaty. Who is this man? Why is he hanging out by my car? What the hell does he want?