The behemoth of a man doesn’t move back an inch.
Nor does he speak. Or react. Or do anything.
Harsh, angry breaths huff from my nose like a bull as I glare at the hooded man. I can’t see much of his face except the bottom half, but I can feel his eyes burning into me. Soon, my body will smolder until there’s nothing left but ashes dancing in the cold wind.
“What do you want from me?” I hiss, curling my hands into fists, only to abate the shaking. My whole body has begun to vibrate from anger and fear. But also from something else. Something so disturbing, I refuse to put a name to it.
He doesn’t answer, but he does grin—a slow, sinful twist of his lips that sends sparks skittering down my spine.
With deliberation, his tongue darts out and licks his bottom lip. My eyes zero in on the movement. The act primal. Animalistic. And fucking terrifying.
My heart starts to claw its way up my throat. Swallowing it back down, I narrow my eyes and open my mouth to yell at him some more.
Before I can, he takes a single step back. And though I can’t see it, I know he’s giving me a once-over. Then he turns and walks away.
Just like that.
Not a single word spoken. Not an explanation offered. Not even a crazy confession of how he wants us to be together or some shit.
Nothing.
I stand there and watch his retreating form, going back to whatever portal from Hell he crawled out of. I stare until he’s gone, and I begin to contemplate if I really have lost my mind, and just imagined the whole thing.
Surely, I wouldn’t be so stupid to confront a psychopath. The very psychopath that cut off a man’s hands and left them on my doorstep.
But that’s precisely what I did. And he did nothing in return, except lick his lips at me like he plans to feast on me.
Oh no, what if I have a second-coming of Jeffrey Dahmer stalking me?
Heart back in my throat, I turn and rush back inside, feeling like Lucifer’s hounds are nipping at my asscheeks. And when I shut and lock the door behind me, I look back to the rocking chair I was sitting in and see the knife lying haphazardly on the floor, next to the footstool.
Oh my God.
I confront a psycho and I drop the knife on the ground instead of bringing it with me.
God, why did you make me the way that I am? Next lifetime, can you not do such a shitty job?
As a reward for finishing my manuscript and sending it off to my editor, I’m treating myself to a nice murder investigation.
Daya sent over more notes that she found from the PD’s database. Emails pour in by the minute with more details. Most of it is handwritten reports by men with atrocious penmanship.
And with the mishandling of the crime scene, we essentially have nothing to go on.
My great-grandfather mentioned in a report that she was acting strangely for several months leading up to her death.
She was distant. Not as talkative. Paranoid. Short-tempered with Nana, and she was late picking her up from school several times with no explanation as to why.
Gigi wouldn’t talk about it with her husband, which led to several arguments between them. In the reports, he admitted their relationship had been declining for the past two years. He had begged Gigi to talk to him about her change in behavior, but she claimed nothing was amiss.
I spend hours dissecting Gigi’s diary entries, looking for hidden meanings in everything she wrote. Searching for the entries where she expresses fear and discomfort.
But whatever scared her, scared her so much that she couldn’t even write it out in words.
Part of me wishes these journals had been found during her investigation. I might’ve never gotten to read them if they had been, but maybe then they might’ve been able to solve her case.
I sigh and run my hands through my thick hair. My shoulders are starting to burn from my hunched-over position and my eyes are growing bleary from all the reading.
A headache blooms in my temples, worsening my vision until I can’t see or think straight anymore.
I sit back in the rocking chair and look out the window.
My strangled scream pierces the air when I see the stalker is back—standing in the same spot as before, puffing on his stupid cigarette. It’s been three days since I confronted him, and I’ve been on high alert ever since. Waiting for him to break in again, and this time, come into my room while I’m sleeping.
My heart lobs around in my chest, pumping erratically. A low heat sparks in the pit of my stomach, my mouth drying as the burn descends between my thighs.
I’m glued to the chair, panting from the heady mix of fear and arousal. My cheeks burn from shame, but the feeling doesn't dissipate. I should close the curtains—do myself a favor and cut us both off from our silent war.
But for some unknown reason, I can’t get myself to move. To pick up the phone and call the police. To do anything that would classify me as intelligent and having common sense.
Those things are nonexistent as I stare out at the man. Whatever ghosts haunt these walls are no longer relevant, not when there’s something much more dangerous haunting the grounds.
As if the ghosts heard me, light footsteps sound from above me. I turn my head and lift my eyes to the ceiling, tracking the phantom footsteps until they fade away.
And when I turn back, my stalker is a few feet closer. As if he’s wondering what I’m staring at. Questioning what could’ve possibly turned my attention away from him.
He’s wondering if it’s another man, I’m sure. Maybe he thinks Greyson is back, occupying the house somewhere. Calling out for me and asking me to join him in my bed, naked and hard for me.
Maybe he even thinks we just fucked, my thighs still slick with another man’s seed.
Does that piss him off?
Of course it does. He mutilated and killed a man for touching me. What would he do to a man for fucking me?
What would he do to me?
Doesn’t matter that it’s the furthest thing from the truth. The fact that those thoughts could be running through his head and driving him crazy brings a small smile to my lips.
Just to fuck with him, I turn my head and pretend to shout something out.
“What are you doing?” I say aloud, aiming my words towards a ghost that’ll never reply.
Looking back at my shadow, I see him pull out his phone, the blue light getting lost in the depths of his hood as he looks at something. Several seconds later, he tucks it away in his pocket, slides out another cigarette from the pack, and lights it up. Chain smoker. Gross.
He sticks around for another fifteen minutes. And during that time, I scarcely look away. It feels like a game almost, and I’ve always been a sore loser.
I’m thanking Jesus I don’t have to travel for this book signing event. Another big romance author is hosting it, and luckily, it takes place in good ol’ Seattle.
A thin layer of sweat coats my skin as I look myself over one last time in the mirror.
“You’ve done a million of these, girlfriend. You’re going to be fine,” Daya assures from behind me. I’m wearing a flattering red blouse that shows off my body nicely without looking too racy or inappropriate and ripped black mom jeans. I painted my lips red and slipped on comfortable checkered Vans.
My cinnamon hair is curled into loose beach waves, completing the casual but chic look. I don’t usually like to dress up for these things. I’m sitting in a chair all day, so I make sure to look nice enough to take pictures with and leave the rest to comfort.