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.