Hunkering down, I peek through the curtains and wait for the person to emerge from the front porch.
It feels like an eternity passes, but I imagine it’s only been seconds before I see movement. An audible cry leaves my lips when a large man saunters off the steps and walks out onto my driveway. He’s wearing all black, with a deep hood settled over his head.
He’s tall—very tall, but not bulky. Even beneath his clothing, I can tell his body is fucking lethal. Lean, but packed with muscle. His hoodie clings to his body, showing off his broad shoulders, thick arms, and trimmed waist.
God, he could crush me if he wanted to. His hand looks big enough to cover the entirety of my face. Or wrap around my neck.
Would he do it to cause pain or pleasure? Does my shadow want to hurt me or love me?
He stills, his back facing me. He can feel me watching him, just like I felt him outside my door.
I find myself curling deeper into the shadows, out of sight. My heart is still racing, though now for an entirely different reason.
Something about him has me wanting to press my face into the window. I want to see him. I want to see the man that’s been creeping inside my house, leaving me flowers, and mutilating any unsuspecting soul that dared to touch me.
Was his hand on the knob, ready to come in? What stopped him?
As if hearing my thoughts, he cocks his head slightly. Intently, I watch him slowly turn his head to the side. And ever so slightly, he raises his chin, the moonlight revealing his wide mouth and a sharp jaw.
I huddle deeper into the wall, feeling his eyes on me. There’s no way he can see me. Yet somehow, I feel his gaze piercing me anyway. Like little, sharp knives grazing my skin before digging inside me.
And then he smiles, his mouth stretching into a wicked smirk. My breath hitches, and my lungs fill with fire.
Oh, this is funny to you, asshole?
Before I can process what to do—what I’m feeling—he turns and walks away, disappearing into the tree line. Slow and purposeful, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.
Chapter 11
The Manipulator
D
aya said Nana was the freak, but I’m starting to wonder if it was her mother that was the freak. I skim through the diary, reading over her words.
I’m sitting in the same rocking chair Gigi used to sit in to write in her diary while her stalker watched on. While she let him feast his eyes on her, and got off on it too, apparently.
Snapping the book shut, I throw it on the footstool before me, the furniture rocking from the movement of the heavy book.
I sigh heavily, pinching the bridge of my nose to ward off the blooming headache.
I mean, what was she thinking? Letting a strange man watch her, come into her home, and touch her? That’s insane. Certifiably insane.
What’s truly insane is the fact that I found this diary, and a stalker found me on the same night. I don’t want to think about what that means.
The wind blows outside the window, rattling the glass. Storm clouds are rolling in, the ever-present weather that plagues Seattle like bad acne. Just when you think we're going to have a lovely sunny day, a storm cloud pops up, ready to burst.
Okay, gross, Addie.
A loud thump sounds from the kitchen, causing me to nearly jump out of my seat. Heart pumping heavily in my chest, I look towards the direction and find nothing amiss.
“Hello?” I call out, but no one answers.
Attempting to even my breathing, I turn back right as movement from the corner of my eye snags my attention right outside the window. My head snaps in that direction and my eyes zero in on whatever it was I just saw. It’s nearly pitch-black outside save for the moonlight and a single light outside my front door.
Another flash of movement causes me to nearly plant my face against the glass. It’s a person, walking towards my house, having emerged from between two large trees. My eyes narrow into thin slits as the person’s shape becomes more apparent.
He’s back.
After two nights of nothing, the son of a bitch actually came back.
My hand drifts over to the end table next to me, snagging the butcher knife I’ve been carrying around with me since he broke into my house last. Turns out my security cameras are useless with him. The second he left, I checked them just to find out that they didn’t catch sight of him.
When Daya looked into it, her face dropped, and her eyes went wide with terror. He spliced the cameras. Hacked into them and made it appear as if nothing was happening while he was walking through my house while I slept.
She said not only did he splice the camera feed, but he did it so well, it was untraceable. The only reason Daya was even able to come to that conclusion is because she knows how technology works and she does the same thing herself for her job.
This guy is dangerous—in more ways than just his violent tendencies.
I grip the handle in my fist and settle it on my lap. As he nears, my heart pounds in my chest, matching each step he takes towards me.
I stand and close in on my window. I don’t know what I’m doing exactly. Provoking him? Daring him to come inside my house again? If he does, I have every right to defend myself.
The man stops about twenty feet away, his face once again hidden deep in a hood. He widens his stance as if getting comfortable, plunging a hand into his hoodie pocket and pulls out something I can’t see. It’s not until I see him flick a lighter, enunciating his impossibly sharp jawline and a cigarette sticking out from his mouth. He lights the cigarette, and then the flame goes out, leaving nothing but his moonlit silhouette and a blaring cherry.
He stares.
And I stare back.
Without looking away, I grab my phone from the end table. I listened to him and didn’t call the cops when he sent me that fucked up box of hands, but he didn’t say I couldn’t call them when he’s standing twenty feet outside my window.
I look down to unlock my phone, and when I glance up, my thumb freezes.
The moonlight spills over his silhouette. And with perfect clarity, I watch him slowly shake his head at me. Warning me not to do what I’m about to do.
I glance at my front door, fear steadily trickling through my body at an alarming rate. It’s locked, but he’s already proven that it’s futile. I calculate the distance between him and the door. How long would it take him to run to it, break through, and get to me? At least a solid thirty seconds.
That’s enough time to dial 911 and tell them someone is trying to hurt me, right? But it would be pointless. It’s going to take the police no less than a half-hour to get to me.
As if hearing my thoughts, he takes a few steps closer, his hand periodically pulling the cigarette from his mouth as he puffs.
Is he… challenging me? My spine snaps straight, and white-hot rage fills my vision. Who the hell does this dude think he is?
Growling under my breath, I storm to my door, unlock it and whip it open. He turns his head to face me, and for a moment, I almost develop a brain and run back inside.
Steeling my spine, I angrily stomp down the steps and charge towards him.
“Hey, asshole! If you don’t get off my property, I will call the cops.”
Later, I’ll ask God why She made me the way that I am, but right now, all I can do is plant two of my hands on his chest and push when I get close enough. I don’t allow myself to register the defined muscles under his hoodie—because only psychos would focus on that right now.