GHOST PORTAL (#1 GHOST PORTAL series)

SIX

Fighting through the rest of her shift proved to be a nightmare. Jessamine battled bouts of nausea, waves of weakness, and found herself becoming aggressive towards customers and co-workers frequently, which everyone thought was odd. Though not the nicest person in the world, Jessamine was usually patient, understanding, and managed her moods well enough. Today, something irked her, crawled up her spine and pinched her. Something wasn't right, and she couldn't figure out what it was.

Her boss sent her home a few hours before the end of her shift, having noticed her behavior.

"You're always quirky, and the patrons love it," he said, offering a hand to take her apron. Chad was, to put it lightly, not a gentleman, and for him to be helping Jessamine meant he wanted her out, fast. "I'm not sure what bug bit you today, but you should go home and rest, yeah? Is it..." he jutted his chin at her lower half and cringed, "that time?"

Gritting her teeth—oh, the comebacks she had for such irritating bullshit spewed out by assholes like him—Jessamine shook her head and accepted the request to go home. Maybe all she needed was a nap, a glass of wine, a hot bath, and she'd calm down.

It was Avery, she knew; Avery and the connection she'd made with him, Avery and his link with Amy. It was Amy and that house. All these foreign facts on their own wouldn't be reason enough for Jessamine to be so riled up; but all compiled together, they made her wonder why.

"Too many coincidences," she said, slipping out the side-door in the alley. The air was cooler now, more refreshing than it had been when she'd been outside hyperventilating.

With the breeze whipping through her hair, she strolled to the sidewalk and took a right, scaling past the next-door seafood place, then the "Cigarettes, Alcohol, and other goods" store that she'd more than once bought a bottle of booze from. She passed a few more shops—the antique shop she avoided because the owner looked at her weird. The retro ice-cream parlor she'd spent many evenings at with friends. And the specialty pet-store that always made her wish she had a pet, and that reminded her that animals recoiled at her lately.

A chill slowed her pace as she was about to cross the street; one that saved her life, as she'd been stuck in her la-la land and hadn't noticed a car zooming by, going a tad too fast for this area. It was the quaint, old-town part of Westgardens, but also the most touristic part, which brought tourists who didn't know how to drive and who had no respect for signs or pedestrians. Jessamine had a car, but she hated driving; and why would she need to, anyway, when she lived a few blocks down from her job?

She entered the code to her apartment complex; a cluster of chic, loft-style apartments, owned by some hot-shot from LA that her mom had once represented in court. For her success, Mrs. Spencer had gotten a rent-controlled one-bedroom apartment for Jessamine at a heavily discounted price, but Jessamine avoided telling anyone about how little she spent on rent. In any case, it worked out, since the coffee-shop barely paid minimum wage. This situation allowed her to save money for emergencies.

Once inside her place, she sniffed in the leftover scent of the lavender-vanilla candle she'd lit that morning, desperate for its comfort, its familiarity. But the chill from earlier still haunted her, continuing to tiptoe up and down her back.

She hung her purse from the hooks on the wall facing the door, then threw her sneakers into the shoe-cubby and left her keys in the key-dish. Parading past the living room, she went on to the kitchen, through which she'd access her bedroom and her bathroom. She discharged all her clothes and launched them at the hamper, then marched straight to the shower, that she ran hot—as hot as possible.

The shower's heat didn't warm her, didn't fix the chills. Despite the steam blowing out as she exited the tub, coating the mirror in thick layers, she was cold. Goosebumps prickled up her arms and her hair stood on edge.