7. Melody
Melody
I stare up at the dark green canopy of the cemetery tree, my heart pounding in frantic palpitations.
They found me. He's not Phil, though. He has to work for Phil.
Or with him. Do semantics like this even matter?
He's going to kill me for what I did. He's going to kill me over that rat shit corpse Charlie .
I huff out a breath and steal a look at the imposing man.
The black cotton fabric of my panties pokes out of his stupid suit pocket.
Mocking me. Taunting me. The faded fabric nearly matches the black tattooed tendrils on his throat, peeking out from under his Oxford collar.
His left hand rests casually in his pocket, but his right fiddles with the hem of his suit jacket.
Another tattoo covers his fingers and stretches up underneath the sleeves of his pale lavender dress shirt.
It looks like every one of the bones in his hand has been outlined, and the spaces between are blacked out.
I can't tear my gaze away from the skeletal tattoo on his hand. I can't tell if the rest of his arm is like that, too. But why am I even thinking about his skeleton tattoos? He's going to turn me into a skeleton.
All over that waste of breath, Charlie.
"How did you find me?" I manage to force out, but I'm still not able to look him in the face.
He's silent for a moment. I can feel his gaze raking up and down my body. His tattooed hand releases the suit hem and cracks a knuckle.
"When one has as many resources at their disposal as I do, finding people is rarely a difficult ordeal. You, however, managed to escape me." He chuckles. "Until now."
Finally able to move my eyes, I glare at him. Shit, he's tall. I have to crane my neck to look into his emerald green eyes.
"Until now," I whisper. He seems slightly perplexed by my glare and just flashes his teeth at me in a menacing smile. Silence hangs between us, only broken by the soft cooing of a pigeon. I will not be the first to break.
He averts his gaze and stares down at the headstone in front of us.
I chew on my lip and follow his line of sight.
This part of the country really is old—well, by American standards.
We're standing above the remains of a boy who died in the Revolutionary War.
He wasn't even thirty. I am older than that boy got to be.
And it feels weird. Though it seems I'll be following him soon, anyway.
"Who are you, really?" I ask. "I mean, did Phil send you?"
He scoffs. "No, a sniveling little shit like Phil did not send me."
"Well, you've obviously been stalking me! Why? What do you want? Who the fuck are you?" I retort.
"Dante Lyons. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, you angry little thing." He holds out his hand like he wants to shake, but I just stare at it. The skeletal tattoos don't extend onto his palm.
"Why are you following me?" I ask, still staring at his hand. He retracts it and shoves it into his pants pocket, looking irritated.
"I'm an interested party. But you're clearly not in any mood to speak rationally." He sniffs. "We'll be in touch, Melody Gutierrez."
He straightens his suit and flashes me another menacing smile before calmly walking away. Like he didn't just imply he knows who I really am. Like he hasn't broken into my apartment. Like he doesn't know exactly where I am at all times.
How much about me does he really know? I stand stock-still, thoughts racing through my mind. How the fuck am I going to go back to work like this?
My home hasn't felt truly safe since that bastard—Dante—started leaving flowers on my counter. On my bed. In my bathroom. He's been everywhere, and now I have a real face to pit against the groggy memory of the intruder who slept next to me in my bed.
Dante. Dante Lyons.
Crashing through my front door, I scurry to my bedroom and dig through my disheveled piles of clothing. I need Detective Ella's card—I need to tell her. I need to call her. It's not Phil. It's… this guy.
Her card managed to jam itself into the far recesses of my nightstand drawer, slightly crumped, but still legible. With shaking hands I dial the number and wait.
It rings. Once, twice, thrice. After the fifth ring, I'm sent to her voicemail. Or maybe her voicemail—it's the generic default that reads out her phone number in a robotic voice. I inhale a shuddering breath and wait for my chance to speak.
"Hi Detective Ella, it's Melody—from the Ridgeway Arms?
You were here about a month ago for a break-in…
I know who did it. He's stalking me, and he found me at my job, and his name is Dante.
" I pause. "I don't know what he wants with me.
But he's made it very clear that he can find me, no matter where I go. Please, call me back." Beep .
Tossing my phone to the side, I flop down in my bed and stare at the ceiling.
The texture of the drop tiles stares back at me.
I know there's a name for it, seeing faces in random patterns, but I can't for the life of me remember what it's called.
After a few moments, my phone vibrates, and Detective Ella's number flashes across the screen.
I reach for it frantically and fumble with the screen.
"Hello?"
"Melody?" Ella's voice is slightly muffled, like she's chewing on something.
"Yes, it's me! Did you get my voicemail?" I sit up straight.
"Mmhm." Ella pauses, slurping something. "The guy found you at your job, huh? Dante? Any last name?"
"Umm…" I chew on my lower lip, completely unsure why I feel trepidation about giving his full name. I can't be that fucked up, that I don't want my murderer-to-be known to the police. Right? "Lyons. Dante Lyons."
"Did he threaten you in any way?" Ella couldn't sound any more disinterested if she tried.
"Not… exactly. He said he's been looking for me, and that he has connections, and that's how he found me." I grimace as I finish.
"Wait, he's been looking for you? And he only found you today? So, why do you think he's the one who broke in?" Ella punctuates her questions with a bite of something crunchy, and my stomach gurgles.
"Because… I don't know!" I stand and huff out a breath of frustration. "Because he's been leaving roses here? With a purple ribbon around them! And he knew about that! Who else would know but the stalker?"
"Melody, I'm going to ask you to calm down. Did he tell you in plain English that he left you flowers? In your home?"
Shit. No. I sound crazy, and she's going to discount everything I say because of that. I rub my eyes and sigh into the phone. "No."
"Well, then. There you go. He can't be the stalker.
Honestly, Melody, your story about this guy doesn't add up.
I'm not a mental health professional, but I think you need to talk to someone about your paranoia.
I'd be happy to send you some resources.
" She swallows loudly. "Otherwise, I hope you enjoy your evening. "
Tears gather in the corners of my eyes, sharp and hot. "No, thank you. Goodbye." I tap the end call button so hard I think I might shatter my screen. Fuck. Fuck!
In the back of my mind, I knew the cops wouldn't do anything.
They didn't before, so why would they now?
But it hurts all the same to hear the disbelief, the accusations of paranoia, the dismissal.
I stop myself from throwing my phone at the wall and flop back down onto my bed.
The tears burn a path down my temples to my ears, pooling on my shitty blanket.
This man, this monster, found me. He broke into my home, left evidence of his presence, and found me at my job. And the cops aren't taking it seriously. He intimidated me in a fucking cemetery—why didn't I tell Ella that?
"Because she wouldn't care in the slightest," I whisper to myself between shaky breaths. I wish I had more money saved up. I wish I had any kind of exit plan besides fleeing the country. I can't even afford to drive to Mexico, let alone fly. And my passport… fuck. My passport is in my real name.
My real name—the woman that everyone thinks was kidnapped six months ago. Tied to a gruesome murder outside of Chicago. That would definitely raise flags at the border. I roll onto my side and curl up in a fetal ball, swiping away tears.
I stare at the little lamp on my bedside table.
It was free, left on the table in the lobby of my building, where residents usually leave things they don't want anymore.
The building maintenance man told me someone left it in their unit when they moved out.
The whole time I've had it, it's been covered in construction dust. I just never cared to clean it off.
But it's totally clean now. Another gift from that asshole in the suit.
The metal of the base is a polished silver, with a beige lampshade over the LED bulb.
Usually, I find the light warm and cozy.
But it just seems wrong. He's also shifted its position—the cord leading down the wall outlet has always faced away from me, but it's been turned towards my bed.
I reach out and twirl it back. Something small—and sounding like plastic—clinks against the metal base. What the fuck? I sit up and scoot the lamp closer to me, listening intently. Yeah, there's something in the base. There definitely wasn't when I first brought it in—it was just a normal lamp.
Or maybe I'm going crazy, and Ella is right. I am being paranoid. But if I can ease my worries by looking…. I pick up the lamp, and a tiny plastic cube rattles out onto the table. My stomach drops to the floor. What the fuck is that?
With shaking hands, I pick it up and inspect the little thing. It's black and mostly plastic, but it has a tiny hole on one side and a shiny glass square on another. Almost like a teeny, tiny camera—
I throw it and listen to the satisfying tink of it hitting the wall. The stupid little gadget falls somewhere in my laundry pile. Maybe that fucker Dante will get a good view of my sweat-stained work shirts before it goes into the laundry in the basement.
"Fuck you, Dante!" I whisper-shout and laugh to myself.
Maybe I'll do laundry tomorrow and relish in drowning the camera.
Something that tiny had to cost him a pretty penny—and it's just so sweet that its end will be in an agitated tub of water and soap.
And if it survives that, there's no way it'll survive the dryer.
And even if it does, I'll toss it out into the alley behind the building. He can get a front-row seat to the local kids smoking weed in high definition. Fuck you, Dante.
Having a plan makes me feel infinitely better and I snuggle myself into bed, ready for a restful night's sleep.
I smile up at the drop-tile ceiling and mouth "good night" to the obscure faces in the texture patterns.
Pareidolia, that's what it's called. The satisfaction of remembering the name warms my heart and I rub my legs together under the blanket like a cricket.
I don't fucking need Ella . I can take care of myself. Always have, always will.
And if that smarmy asshole rears his (admittedly, very attractive) face again… well. I've gotten rid of a man before. I can certainly do it again. Me and my new knife will make sure of that.
The scent of leather and cedarwood fills my nostrils as I wake from a lovely dream where I was stabbing Mister Fancy-suit McAsshole to death. Keeping my eyes closed, I yawn and stretch and feel… warmth. There's that same warmth beside me, like all those weeks ago.
My heart seizes, and my eyes spring open, but the bed is empty. That familiar depression in the crappy mattress is back, though, and it's warm. Shockingly warm. Like there was someone there only seconds ago.
He's in my fucking house.
I spring out of bed and grab the knife from under my mattress.
I'm armed and dangerous, motherfucker, come get me.
Trying to keep as silent as possible, I creep down the hall, pausing to check the bathroom.
No one there—no flowers, either. Just as I back out into the hallway, I hear the telltale click of my front door's lock.
Rage floods my veins, and I sprint to the door, wrenching it open, but there's no one in the apartment hall either.
Only threadbare carpet and stained walls, with the lingering scent of urine wafting from the nearby stairwell.
I huff in a guttural noise of frustration and slam the door closed.
Right on cue, Mister Apartment 403 pounds on the wall.
"Trying to sleep!" a muffled voice shouts from the other side.
I roll my eyes and slump to the floor. I never once complained about his late-night parties or gaming sessions, but the instant I make a peep, it's like World War III.
War. That's exactly what this is. I narrow my eyes and scope out my kitchen/living room. In the middle of the floor, highlighted by the rising sun, is another fucking rose. The familiar purple ribbon tied in a classy little bow mocks me. But this time, there's something under the rose.
I creep forward on my hands and knees, holding my breath. I don't think he's still in here, but I can't be sure. As I inch my way closer, the something comes into view… a piece of paper. It's thick and a creamy off-white. Thick black ink scrawls across it, but I can't quite read it.
Snatching the stupid note from under the rose, my heart stops and nausea roils in my gut.
Melody, You should know better than to call the police, especially after your troubles in Chicago. I'll be watching. I'll be waiting. Love, D
Fuck.