16. Anna #2
“A buddy of mine over in Boulder just caught some bank robbers using the same thing,” he had said, pulling up a picture of a children’s panic button that you can get for thirty dollars online.
It’s barely the size of a flash drive, completely discreet, and apparently sends out a private alarm to the parents or whoever else is on the receiving end of that line.
And that was all in the beginning of his speculation.
If I had been guilty, I honestly would have broken down and confessed on the spot.
Hell, when he was talking about how much trouble I would be in if convicted, the opportunity to get a reduced sentence for my confession almost had me admitting to it, even though I had nothing to do with the robbery.
No wonder people crack under police interrogation. I had been in my own apartment, not the police station, and I had only spoken with him for an hour and a half.
I tried to be helpful, but it didn’t do any good. Though he was clearly asking out of obligation and not because he thought I’d actually give him any answers, Detective Nash slid some sheets containing mugshots in front of me to see if I recognized any of them from the robbery.
Seeing as how I didn’t interact directly with the other two thieves, it was impossible to pick out anyone in particular amongst the sea of brown eyes.
And any of the photographs containing people with blue were quite frankly jarring.
One of the men looked drunk, on the verge of passing out.
Another had a punk rock look, smudged eyeliner and all.
Based on the eye shape, it could have been my stalker, but his eyes were downcast and the whites were so bloodshot that it was hard to tell what shade of blue the irises were.
Then, there was another guy who appeared to be doing his version of “Blue Steel,” posing for the photograph.
He also looked to have fallen in a vat of bleach.
If not for the tanned skin, I would have thought he was albino, given that his hair, eyebrows, and even eyelashes were pale blonde.
The final mugshot in the bottom right corner of the page showed a young man who looked to have gotten into a fight with Mike Tyson.
The color of his eyes, or rather his eye, looked like a match, but the shape was difficult to make out.
The whole left side of his face was one massive bruise, the eye nearly swollen shut.
His right eye was still intact, but it was glaring at the camera (or perhaps the person on the other side of it) hard enough that I felt threatened just looking at it.
When I just shook my head, unable to verify anybody, Nash didn’t look remotely surprised, taking the sheets back from me.
He had shown the same images to Westfall’s employees, without any luck from Devin or Mia either. Could he blame us, though? He just showed me what looked like a rogues gallery from a comic book, not an actual police lineup.
Getting nothing of any value from me definitely had left a bad taste in the detective’s mouth, and I did nothing to alleviate it by the time he walked out the door.
Fuck!
Being on the run from Sebastian again is far more preferable to spending the next fifty years behind bars.
I have no other choice.
Pulling myself off the ground, I go into my bedroom and tear open my package.
Time to see who we’re dealing with here.
Come nightfall, I have nothing to do but wait. There’s no way my stalker missed my conversation with Nash, and given that Darcy’s schedule has her popping in and out of the apartment throughout the afternoon, I know he’ll wait until she’s gone for the evening to appear.
The last thing I want to do right now is go to work, but I get a call from Rachel verifying my schedule.
The shift goes by simultaneously too fast and too slow.
I both want and don’t want to go back to my apartment, and I can’t help but to keep looking around, waiting to see my reaper lurking in the crowds.
I don’t find him, but that doesn’t mean he’s not there.
Since I need to confront him in my apartment, I keep my car keys on me to ensure he can’t corner me in the warehouse again, and I’m relieved when I get back home that it’s empty.
I can shower, remove my skeleton makeup, and hopefully squash the nerves still wreaking havoc on my system.
Much good it does. I’m in my apartment for over an hour and have yet to hear a single peep.
The air is more than a little nippy, but I refuse to cover up as I sit in bed.
I need to be as much of a proverbial dish as possible.
I need to tempt him. Sadly, this also leaves me wearing nothing but a low-cut tank top and sleep shorts.
At least with the temperature, my nipples are already hard.
But goosebumps pepper my skin, and I’m shaking ever so lightly.
I want to blame it on the cold, but I honestly haven’t stopped since Nash left.
It also doesn’t help when I know he ’ ll be coming. In more ways than one.
Right about now, I’m fucking terrified, but my lower bits haven’t gotten the message, apparently, because that’s the only part about me that is warm as a steady pulse throbs between my clenched thighs.
Keeping the lamp beside me turned on, I pull my laptop onto said thighs, letting the heat of it at least warm the top of my legs.
I know the position is bad for the laptop since it limits the airflow, but it’s the only thing that can offer me some heat while also giving me something to do with my hands.
A half-hour into working on my next commissioned book design, I hear it.
A floorboard emits a faint whine out in the hallway, and I brace myself when the door knob twists ten heartbeats later.
My suspicions about him being at The Slaughterhouse are confirmed the second he steps into view. Unlike his other visits to my apartment, he’s not just wearing his usual black mask. I’m greeted by the Reaper from last night.
Shit.
How much of his face is painted? Only the lower half where the mask doesn’t cover? If I can get him to remove the hood as well, it should be enough, but what if it’s not?
He rounds the bed and, without saying a word, closes my laptop and sets it on my desk.
He also removes his jacket, but my hope that the hood is built into it is squashed when I see it’s part of the lightweight shirt underneath.
With his gloves and the black and white face paint also covering his neck, he doesn’t even have any skin on display.
“You okay?” His voice is warm enough to melt butter, but he hesitates as he makes his way back to the bed, his eyes narrowing as they peruse my body.
His head tilts to the side as if he’s studying me, as if my plan is etched across my face.
“How do you want it, baby? What are you in the mood for tonight?”
Is he…talking with a Boston accent?
When I don’t say anything, he reaches over and turns off the lamp. This still shouldn’t be a problem, except that he follows it up by turning on the flashlight function on his phone.
My heart threatens to explode inside my chest as he begins moving the light around the room.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!
No, he can’t find it. He can’t—
The light stops moving once it hits the bookshelf above my desk, and the lamp is immediately turned back on.
“I’m flattered, sweetheart, but I’m not an exhibitionist,” he drawls, again in that accent.
To my horror, he moves over to the bookshelf and, sure enough, pulls out a particular volume.
Opening its pages, he exposes the hidden camera built inside.
I hear things snapping and breaking as he pries it free, and he crumples the remains in his fist before discarding them in the glass of water on my nightstand.
The feed from the camera automatically uploads to my computer, but all I got was a fully clothed body, none of his skin, none of his hair, nothing of his face, and only three whole syllables of his normal speaking voice.
How the hell did he know?
One long look at me, and he had become performative, fully aware that he was being recorded.
My stalker remains eerily calm, the only sign of his anger being the rise and fall of his chest that grows more sharply with every inhale.
The second those steely eyes meet mine, I know I’m fucked.
After what happened the last two times in here, I didn’t want to keep my knife stored beneath my pillow, since blades only ever seem to be used against me . And after what happened in the warehouse, I definitely didn’t want to inspire him with any ideas of making our blood play real this time.
So, I’m left to do the only thing that I can. I scramble to the other side of the bed, going for the nightstand where I stored my knife, but I only get as far as grabbing the handle of the drawer when fingers capture my ankle and drag me back.
I scream, and the fact that he doesn’t seem to care just scares the shit out of me more.
The neighbors below me are practically deaf without their hearing aids, the apartment next to me sounds like it’s hosting a party, and I’ve never met the neighbors above me, so I doubt anyone will bother to call the police.
And it wouldn’t do any good anyway. He’ll be long gone, and I’ll likely be long dead by the time anyone even gets here.
I kick at him, and my heel connects with his forearm, but it doesn’t stop him.
He snatches hold of my free ankle and wrestles my legs down long enough to climb on top of me, pinning me to the mattress.
The fact that I’m on my stomach only makes this worse as I desperately try to claw my nails at him, my movement severely limited.
Not again. Not like this…
Tears blur my vision, and I begin sobbing.
Some rational part of me knows I need to keep calm, I need to clear my head to think of a way out of this, but memories drown out even that voice as pressure is applied to my back.
I don’t know if it’s his elbow or something else, but it’s sharp enough that it digs right into the spot beside my kidney.
The sensation turns my sob into a strangled cry that can’t be mistaken for anything other than what it is.
Pain.
Pain that radiates all the way through me into my stomach and even along my spine.
My stalker immediately freezes above me, and after a brief moment of what I can only imagine is his confusion, he draws his weight up, lifting whatever it is from digging into my back.
I could sob just from sheer relief as the pain subsides, and my reaction has my stalker grabbing the hem of my shirt, forcing it up my back.
Daily activities and even lying directly on it won’t trigger any pain, but a certain amount of pressure applied to the spot, even months later, is enough to take my legs out from under me.
The doctors weren’t sure if it was scar tissue or simply neuropathic pain as I healed, but it hasn’t improved.
I know the moment my stalker sees the thin inch-long discoloration. A gloved finger runs along the puckered skin, and I instinctively flinch.
“What the fuck happened?” His voice is guttural, damn near a growl. It elicits a chill over the exposed skin on my back, but I don’t say anything. I can’t. It’s never done me any good. Why would it start now?
Fingers fist the back of my hair, pulling on it hard enough to force my head to the side.
“Don’t make me fucking ask you again, love,” he snarls. “ What did he do to you?”