Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EMMA
I pushed through the door of the local police station. For early evening, it was surprisingly quiet. There was a man in uniform sitting behind the desk, tapping away at his computer. When he saw me coming in, he stopped and looked up.
“How can I help you?” he asked, and I glanced around, unsure how much I should disclose in the reception area.
“I need to report something.” I walked closer to the desk and leaned forward, so I could lower my voice. “I have a stalker.”
He nodded, not surprised in the slightest. I guess this was an everyday occurrence for him.
“I need to take a few details,” he stated, and I gave him my name, address, and phone number, and then, he said, “And who is it that’s stalking you? Is it someone you know? An ex, perhaps?”
I knew whatever I said next would sound ridiculous, but I didn’t know how else to word it.
“I don’t know who it is.”
He stopped typing and stared back at me blankly.
“You’re being stalked, and you don’t know who by?”
I shrugged. “That’s not unusual, you know. Most people are stalked by a stranger.”
“I understand that, Miss Bel...”
“Emma,” I interjected. “And he isn’t really a stranger. I mean I have seen him, but I haven’t met him. I know who he is, but I don’t know who he is.”
He shook his head, a puzzled expression on his face. He obviously thought I was a crazy person.
“I’m confused,” he stated, leaning forward on his desk and giving me his full attention. “You’ve seen him, but you haven’t met him. You know who he is, but you don’t know who he is. Excuse me if I’m speaking out of turn, but are you okay, miss? Do you need to see someone from the community support team to discuss your mental health needs?”
I gritted my teeth, rolled my eyes, and then blew out an exasperated breath.
“Yes, I’m fine. And no, I don’t need to see someone about my mental health. I might do soon, though, if someone doesn’t take this seriously.”
He looked startled for a second, and from his confused expression, I could tell he didn’t believe for a minute that I was okay.
He studied my face briefly, before saying, “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? What’s happened? What would you like to report?”
I took a deep breath and told him, “I went to see an artist. His name is S.K.A.M.”
“I love his work,” the officer replied, his eyes lighting up at the mention of S.K.A.M., and he grinned a stupid grin back at me.
“Yeah, I did too. But then I didn’t.”
The policeman nodded, making notes as he listened to me.
“I work for the Merivale Echo,” I went on. “And an article was published not long ago that wasn’t very...” I paused to try and find the right word. “Flattering about his artwork. That piece had my name on it. He took offense, and now he’s stalking me.”
“S.K.A.M.,” he stated plainly. “Is stalking you.” He leaned right up the glass and whispered, “Do you know his real identity?” He still had a look of excitement and wonder on his face. He clearly wasn’t listening to what I was saying. Still wrapped up in the celebrity of it all like a star-struck fan.
“No. Like I said, I know him, but I don’t know him.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, and he said, “Okay. I get what you mean now. Could you tell me what’s happened since?”
“He sent threatening emails to my work.”
“Can you show me those emails?” he asked.
“Well, no. I deleted them.”
“You deleted them.” He sighed in disappointment.
I sighed, too. I was getting tired of running around in circles.
“Yes, I deleted them,” I stated. “I didn’t want them in my inbox. It’s not a crime to delete an email, but they were there. He did send them.”
“Could you recover them?”
“I don’t know.” I had no idea. Maybe the IT department could, but I knew they weren’t in my inbox anymore. “Isn’t my word enough?”
“The evidence would be helpful. If you get anymore, you mustn’t delete them. We could trace the IP address. It could be a crazy fan who saw your article and wants to frighten you for writing about their favourite artist.”
“It isn’t a crazy fan,” I snapped. “I’m sure of it.”
“Without evidence, we can’t say for sure.”
“But there’s more,” I urged, and he waited for me to elaborate. “He broke into my house.”
“So we’re logging a breaking and entering incident, too,” he asked, raising his brows again in exasperation.
“Yes and no.”
He closed his eyes and let out a breath. “Go on.”
“He broke into my house, but I can’t tell how. The locks weren’t broken, the windows are all secure. I have no idea how he got in there, but he did.”
The policeman made a face to show he thought this was another tall story. A sneer of disbelief.
“Are you sure it wasn’t just someone you trusted with your key going in and unsettling things? Or maybe you forgot you’d left things the way you had in your house.”
“No one that I’ve left my key with would leave a package like that on my coffee table,” I seethed. “And I certainly didn’t put it there myself.”
“And what was in the package?” he asked in a disinterested manner, humouring me in what he thought was my deranged story.
“I think it was a heart. Or an organ of some kind.” His eyes went wide as his head whipped up to glare at me. “No, wait. It was definitely a heart, because the message inside said, ‘Here’s a heart, seeing as you clearly don’t have one.’”
He shook his head with his mouth agape at what he’d heard.
“Definitely a heart then,” he said, but I wasn’t entirely sure he believed it. He probably couldn’t believe that my story was growing more twisted by the minute. “And do you have this heart with you?”
“No. I threw it in the bin outside my house and came straight here.”
“Of course you did,” he muttered under his breath.
“I’m not lying.” I stood tall, ready to argue my case.
“I’m sure you’re not, Miss B...”
“Emma.”
He gave a slight smile, but there was pity in his eyes. I didn’t want his pity.
“I’m sure you’re not making it up,” he went on. “But without the email evidence or any other details, all I can do is log it, file a report, and keep your details on our system. And in the meantime, if anything else happens, come straight to us.”
“I can do better than that,” I stated. “If you want evidence, I’ll go and get the fucking evidence. Maybe then you’ll take me seriously.”
“We take all reports seriously, ma’am,” he replied.
“Emma,” I snapped. “My name is Emma.” And I turned and stormed out, determined to go to my house and find that box, bring it back to the station, and drop it on his desk so I could see his face when he realised how wrong he’d been about me.
I wasn’t the crazy one here.
The street was darker now, and the dimly lit streetlamps shone on the ground like golden flickering shadows subtly lighting my way. Every house I walked past had the curtains closed, and it made me feel a little unnerved knowing I was alone out here. That no one could see me. I peered over my shoulder, feeling exposed, but there was no one behind me.
I carried on, heading towards my house, and more importantly, the bin that was sitting right under one of the streetlamps. I stopped in front of it and braced myself with a fortifying breath, then I opened the lid.
There was nothing there.
No plastic bag.
No box.
Nothing.
Just the regular rubbish that’d been in there earlier this morning.
I frowned.
Maybe I’d put it in another bin?
So, I checked Ethel’s bin.
Nothing.
I slammed the lid down and went to Meg and Charlie’s bin. Then Bill or Bob’s or whatever he was called.
Nothing.
I glanced around, wondering where the hell it had gone. And I went back to my bin again and checked one last time. Not that I expected it to magically appear. But I was feeling erratic and acting it too.
“What the fuck?” I hissed. “Did he come back and take it?”
Chills crept down my spine, as if I was being watched. I didn’t want to stay for a moment longer, I didn’t feel safe. I knew I had to get out of here. I had no idea where that heart had gone, but I knew one thing, someone was fucking with my head. I know what I saw in that box, and I know what it meant.
He was coming for me.