10. Phantom Shadow
Phantom Shadow
Ari
That night, after I shower and slip into my oversized t-shirt that Hannah lovingly washed and dried for me, I finally relax for the night. The house is quiet, everyone tucked away in their own rooms. After spritzing some perfume behind my ear—just like my grandmother taught me—I climb into the cozy single bed, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts tangled.
Something about today felt… different.
Like a shift I wasn’t prepared for.
As my eyes drift shut, I tell myself to let it go. To stop overthinking. To forget about the way Maddox watched me during lunch, and then an early dinner of grilled salmon, garlic bread, and zucchini. To forget about the Polly Pocket sitting on my dresser, all wrapped back up in the bubble wrap it came in. To forget about the way Maddox seems to have sized me up in two days flat.
After I finished smoking with him, he left me alone on the side of the house, and I only saw him for meals. I never felt high, but I definitely felt more relaxed as the day went on, which I appreciated. And now?
It’s a little past eight at night and I’m feeling completely awake. Picking my phone up, I FaceTime my best friend, Frankie. She answers on the first ring, and I recognize her office as she comes into view.
“Hey,” Frankie says, not looking at the screen of her computer, but instead on the baby blanket she’s delicately folding. Ever since some influencer shared the link to her baby blanket shop, she’s been working overtime on orders. “How’s the beach vacay going?”
“It’s been… weird,” I say slowly.
She finally looks at the screen, and her knitted brows tell me she’s concerned. “How so?”
“Well, Asher has an identical twin.”
Frankie’s mouth pops open. “Really? How come he never told you?”
I smirk. “Because his twin has been in jail.”
Frankie snorts. “Your life, man. It’s wild. Just like Granny Anastasia. So, what’s the twin like?”
“Maddox,” I clarify.
“Oh. That’s a hot name. He sounds hot. I’m imagining Asher with lots of tattoos, maybe longer hair, and that brooding criminal thing going on.”
I bark a laugh. “You’re close. He doesn’t have long hair, though.”
Frankie shrugs, carrying a stack of beige, rainbow-patterned fabric over to her sewing machine on the other side of the room. “Ah, well, I can’t be right a hundred percent of the time,” she teases, sitting down at the table and beginning to cut the fabric into large squares. “So, why has it been weird? Talk to me.”
I glance at the closed bedroom door, wondering if I should say anything out loud when my boyfriend and his entire family are currently under the same roof as me.
“Well, for one, he’s all… mysterious,” I say, keeping my voice low so that no one can overhear me. “He took me shopping today because I had a shampoo explosion in my suitcase. He picked out all of my clothes. And paid for them. Like I was his sugar baby.”
Frankie’s head pops up. “That’s… Huh. Would it be weird if I said that’s kind of hot?”
I chuckle. “And he’s just been so… mysterious is the wrong word. It’s like he knows me. Knows me, knows me. We did a gift exchange today with everyone, and he got me the Polly Pocket I’ve always wanted.”
Frankie drops the fabric she’s sewing, her mouth dropping into a large ‘O’. “The Jewel Secrets collection?!”
I nod solemnly.
“Holy shit, Ari. You’ve wanted that set for years.”
“I know. And there’s another thing…” I hesitate, unsure if I should say anything. But if I don’t tell someone, I’ll go crazy. “He called me angel.”
Frankie pauses, her brows forming a crease. “Wait. Do you think Maddox could be your super-secret stalker?”
I shrug. “Tell me I’m crazy for even having that thought. I mean, I just met him yesterday.”
She runs a hand over her mouth as she looks at the computer camera. “Maybe he knew about you in jail. Is he close to Asher?”
I shake my head. “Not really. They seem to have a weird rivalry going on. And there’s something else. I think that maybe he came into my room the first night I was here. But I was on Ambien, so maybe I was hallucinating?”
She holds up her hands and laughs. “You know that shit makes you do weird things. You once texted me a five-paragraph analysis of why the moon is probably judging us,” she adds, smirking.
I shake my head, feeling oddly unsettled. “This was different.”
“Is he… dangerous? Like, are you worried? Because I’ll drop everything right now and drive straight to Malibu to pick your cute, little ass up if you say yes.”
I laugh. “No, weirdly. I don’t feel uneasy around him. I feel like I’ve known him forever.”
Frankie watches me for a moment before nodding. “Okay. Then let’s break it down.”
“Break what down?”
“Your stalker being Maddox. Didn’t the stalker sign his name as ‘M’?”
My stomach turns. “Oh my god. I completely forgot that horrifying detail.”
“You’re welcome,” she says dryly, then continues. “Okay, so chances are it’s Maddox. Now, we just need to figure out why.”
I rub my temples, trying to make sense of it all. “What if it is him? What if this is, like, some weird mind game?”
Frankie’s eyebrows shoot up and she walks back to her computer where we’re FaceTiming. “But why?”
Frankie’s office door creaks open, and Dante, her husband, walks in, carrying a mug of something steaming like some brooding, six-foot-four specter of efficiency.
“One hazelnut latte,” he says, handing her the mug.
“Thanks, baby,” Frankie mutters, not looking away from her screen as she types at a speed that should be illegal.
“Hi, Dante,” I say lazily.
He waves, but he doesn’t leave. He lingers, assessing. He’s always been like that—too perceptive, too sharp, too powerful in that quiet, unnerving way only men like him can be.
“You should ask him about Maddox,” Frankie says, her fingers flying over the keyboard.
My cheeks heat. Dante is… intimidating. Not because he’s done anything to me, but because he’s too put together, too controlled. A renowned psychiatrist, grumpy to the point of legendary, and filthy rich on top of it. Frankie swears he was obsessed with her long before they got together, and honestly? I believe it.
He watches his wife for a beat, something dark and unreadable flickering behind his eyes before he turns to me on camera.
“Who’s Maddox?” he asks.
I hesitate, glancing at Frankie, but she just keeps typing, like she didn’t just throw me to the wolves.
I clear my throat. “I—uh. It’s nothing.”
Dante doesn’t blink. He just waits.
That’s the thing about him. He doesn’t press. He doesn’t even move. He just watches you long enough that eventually, you start talking just to fill the silence.
I exhale. “It’s probably stupid.”
“Most things are,” he says dryly, taking a sip of Frankie’s coffee and making a face. “Go on.”
I shoot Frankie a look, but she’s grinning now, entertained. Traitor.
I shift in my seat, and then I tell him everything—from the notes, to meeting Maddox, and the weird things he’s said to me. When I finish, Dante lifts a brow but doesn’t react otherwise. I hesitate. It sounds ridiculous when I lay it all out loud. I expect him to dismiss me, to say I was dreaming, that I was on Ambien, that I imagined it.
Instead, he studies me, his silence stretching long enough to make my pulse pick up.
“What did the notes say?” he asks finally.
I swallow before relaying the two notes I received.
“You need a security guard or something,” Frankie mumbles.
I huff a laugh. “Please. I have pepper spray and questionable life choices. And don’t forget about the black belt.”
“Ari,” Frankie says, her voice reprimanding.
“Also… rage issues. I’ll be fine.”
Frankie arches a brow. “You’re a CPA, not James Bond.”
“That’s what the government wants you to think.” I grin, looking back at Dante, who just sighs. He loathes my conspiracy theory rants, and fortunately, he’s used to our deranged banter. Frankie is right, though.
“You think Maddox left the notes?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
Dante exhales through his nose, something sharp flickering in his gaze. “Well, there are two possibilities. And any good detective will tell you that the simplest explanation is usually the right one.”
Hearing it put that plainly makes my stomach twist.
“Whoever left it wanted you to know they knew you, but they weren’t interested in seeing your immediate response. However, based on what you’ve told me about the things Maddox has said and done…” He trails off. “There’s a good chance he’s your guy.”
Something cold and heavy settles in my chest.
Frankie frowns. “So you’re saying this is, like… some next-level stalker shit? From a guy who just got out of prison?”
Dante doesn’t confirm or deny it. He just watches me.
“Maybe. What’d he go to prison for?” Dante asks.
The hair on my arms prickles. “I don’t actually know.”
“Well, find out,” Frankie practically hisses. “And maybe stop ignoring red flags before you become the next Dateline episode.”
“So comforting,” I tell her, my voice sarcastic. A text comes through, and I frown at my screen. “I should go. Asher just texted me. I’ll keep you updated, okay? And if they find my body in a ditch… well, tell them I always did have a thing for the villain.”
Frankie groans. “Jesus Christ. You’re the exact kind of girl they make those ‘why didn’t she just leave?’ documentaries about.”
I laugh. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I wave at Dante before the FaceTime disconnects, and before I open my texts, I quickly open a new browser and search Maddox’s name.
I should probably figure out what he went to prison for.
An article titled “The Phantom Walks Free” comes up, but just as I click on the link, my phone vibrates with another text from Asher.
Asher
Hey. Just checking in.
You good?
I frown. Not exactly a come to my room, I miss you kind of message, but at least he’s acknowledging I exist.
Yeah, I’m fine. Are you going to come and tuck me in? ;)
Three dots appear, then disappear.
Then—
Asher
I’ve got an early call tomorrow. I think it’s best if we both get a good night’s sleep.
And Ari… we talked about this. I don’t want us sneaking around like we’re teenagers. It’s not fair to either of us.
I stare at the screen, heat creeping up my neck. What if I want to sneak around like a teenager? Did he ever consider that?
A whole day of him being distracted, absent, wrapped up in work and whatever thoughts Maddox’s presence is stirring in his mind—and now, when he finally has time, he’s choosing not to?
I inhale slowly, steadying myself.
But instead of texting back, instead of coaxing him into giving me crumbs, I put the phone down.
No reply. No invitation. If he wants me, he knows where I am.
And if he doesn’t?
Oh well. I refuse to beg for my own boyfriend’s attention.
I grab the bottle of Ambien from my bag, dry swallow a pill, and curl under the blankets.
If he shows, he shows. If he doesn’t, I’ll deal with it in the morning. Pulling my Kindle under the covers, I open my current read—a dark, twisted romance where the heroine is tied to a chair, panting, trembling, while the villain, the one she’s been running from for the last eight chapters, trails a knife along the inside of her thigh, whispering filthy things in her ear.
I shift slightly, my thighs pressing together as I turn the page.
It’s always the villains. Always.
Something about the way they take. The way they know what they want—who they want—and don’t apologize for it.
Thirty minutes later, my eyes grow heavy, and my Kindle slips from my grasp. The last thing I remember is the room fading to black, my limbs turning heavy, my mind sinking into that deep, hazy pull of sleep.
Until—
Something shifts. A click in the quiet air.
A weight in the room.
I stir slightly, caught between wakefulness and dreaming.
It’s pitch dark.
And someone is here.