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THE EIGHTH pt2

I wake with a start, vaguely wondering why I am on my couch. Everything floods back to me and my stomach clenches in anxiety. Realising my phone is ringing, I reach for it, noticing the private number, ready to give Taylor another piece of my mind.

“What do you want?” I say brusquely.

“Um, Abby?” questions a familiar voice softly.

“Nicola?” I respond, wondering why she is calling.

“Abby, can I speak to Taylor? He isn’t picking up his phone.”

“He’s not here,” I say more harshly than intended, and I instantly feel contrite. “Sorry, Nicola. Taylor left a while ago.” I can hear soft crying and low music in the background, and I feel dreadful for talking to her like that. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah, um, no, not really…” Nicola trails off.

The hairs on my neck are standing on end, and call it women’s intuition or something, but I know something is very wrong. “Nicola, sweetie, tell me what’s going on.” The sobbing continues and a thousand scenarios run through my head, each one worse than
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