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.
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.