Chapter 13
Apparently, I don’t have to wait for next Tuesday.
The paranoia starts on Thursday. It’s like he’s everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
I swear I can feel him walking behind me while I’m grocery shopping, but when I turn, there’s no one.
While I’m working, I can hear footsteps outside my office, as if someone is eavesdropping on my sessions with clients, but every time I check… it’s empty.
By Friday, I’m convinced something’s wrong. Maybe it’s my brain playing tricks on me because it can’t process the fact that I watched three men die and then went home to eat a salad.
Is Valerio stalking me?
My suspicions are confirmed on Saturday at the gym.
I’m on the treadmill, trying to outrun my thoughts. The rhythmic thud-thud-thud of my sneakers fills my ears, drowning out the rest.
“Hey. Charlotte, right?”
I jump, nearly losing my footing. It’s Mark. Or Matt. I don’t know.
“Yeah. Hey,” I pant, not slowing my pace.
“You’re going pretty hard. Everything okay?” He leans on the handrail of the machine next to mine. “You looked a little… out of it.”
“I’m fine. Thanks.”
“Right. Well, look, some of us are grabbing drinks later. At that place on 4th. You should come.”
My nose scrunches. There’s nothing I hate more than spending time with strangers in crowded bars. I rarely drink. Honestly, I think the most interesting thing about me is my brain—why try to sabotage it with drinks?
I open my mouth to refuse, but then I catch his reflection in the window, and my mouth slams shut.
Valerio sits on a bench in the weight area. He’s wearing a grey hoodie, hands shoved into the pockets. He isn’t looking at me. He’s staring at the back of Mark’s head.
He is following me.
Even though this is one of the creepiest things a woman can experience, I sigh in relief—because I’m not crazy. He was, and is, stalking me.
He looks like he’s deciding where he should stab Mark first.
Mark’s smile falters when he spots Valerio. The air in our little corner of the gym just died. Valerio truly has a vibe that screams danger—anyone can spot it, even from miles away. The glare he’s aiming at us doesn’t help either.
“Actually,” Mark stammers. “I just remembered I have… a thing. Catch you later?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, practically bolting.
I slow the treadmill to a stop, squaring my shoulders to confront him. But when I look back at the bench, it’s empty.
There’s no way he moved that fast. I wipe the sweat from my forehead, my knees buckling. You aren’t losing it, Charlotte. He really was there.
When you work with the clinically insane for so long, you develop a natural fear of becoming that—clinically insane. It’s an ugly thing that takes and takes and takes.
I sip from my water bottle, calming my nervous system. Breathe in. Breathe out.
I’m being hunted by a psychopath.
Fuck.
I find him again on Sunday.
I’m at a small café three blocks from my apartment.
It’s always quiet, and this time there’s only me.
People don’t really frequent cafés on Sundays; most have dates and family brunches.
I have nothing. Without my rather peculiar job, my life would be meaningless.
I know that’s not healthy and that I need a hobby or two…
soon, I promise myself. It’s been a New Year’s resolution for the past five years, and I have no idea when I’ll get to it.
The lines of my clinical report blur.
A shadow falls over the table.
I don’t look up—because I already know who it is.
Valerio slides into the chair across from me. He doesn’t even fucking say hello. He’s wearing those black gloves again.
I keep my eyes on my paper. “You’re violating about six different boundaries.”
“Your life is boring,” Valerio shrugs unabashedly.
“It’s called being a normal person. You should try it sometime.”
He’s right, though. My life is boring, and it always has been. That’s why I love my unconventional job so much—I get to live the excitement and darkness through these people from the comfort of my routine.
“I tried it. It didn’t take.”
He reaches out, his thumb brushing the edge of my coffee cup. “You’re wearing the same lipstick.” He stares at the imprints on the cup like it’s a specimen. “I thought you’d change it to red after you saw what’s inside a man’s skull.”
“Go away, Valerio.”
“No.” His fingers wrap around the handle of my coffee cup, and I watch with furrowed brows as he places his lips right on the imprints and takes a sip.
Is this the same people disgust me with their sweat and filth Valerio? Or is saliva not included on that list?
“I enjoy taunting you,” he drawls.
Careful not to touch him, I snatch the cup from his hands and place it back beside me. I’m very possessive of my things, even if they’re as small as a cup of coffee.
“Don’t you have better things to do with your time?”
He leans toward me, so close our noses almost touch. Remembering his aversion to touch, I pull back. I don’t fancy dying a horrible death on a random Sunday.
“You didn’t run, Charlotte. Why didn’t you run after the first shot?”
“Maybe I’m just as broken as you are. Is that what you want to hear?”
“I want to know why you cut them loose. Why save them if you didn’t care they were dying?”
“Because I’m the doctor, and you’re the patient. Everything I did was out of commitment to my job. It’s not that I ‘didn’t care’ about them dying—it’s that I chose my priority then, and it was my job. When it was no longer on the line, I saved what I could.”
He clenches and unclenches his fists. He’s frustrated.
Good.
“You think a title protects you?” He stands abruptly, the chair screeching against the floor.
“Don’t follow me home,” I command, changing the subject.
“I don’t have to,” he laughs. “I know I’m already there. Every time you close your eyes, I’m the thing you see in the corner of the room.”
Despite his words being true, I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing it. I lift my right shoulder defiantly. “If you think you occupy even a second of my thoughts outside our sessions, you’re even more troubled than I initially thought.”
His eyebrows rise, and a vein pulses at his temple. With a slam of his fist on the table, he leaves.
He’s right. But I’ll never allow him to realize it.
I reach into my bag, looking for my keys, but my fingers hit something else. I try to feel out what it could be, then pull it out when I can’t identify it.
It’s a spent shell casing, still smelling of cordite. I rush to stuff it back into my bag.
He was in my bag. He was in my space. And I didn’t even notice.
I’m elbows-deep in shit. My only prayer in a long time is the hope that I survive Valerio Morelli.