Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
With a warm mug of fresh coffee in hand, I push open the front door.
It’s cold outside, but I’m determined to enjoy the last autumn mornings of the year from my porch swing.
I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with the crisp air.
The scent of damp earth and leaves hangs heavy in the air; I wish I could bottle it up and infuse it into a candle.
It wouldn’t be the same as the real thing, but just enough for the days I really miss it.
Pulling my fleece bathrobe tight to my chest to stave off the chill, I shuffle my slippered feet over to the wooden swing that hangs from the corner of the porch.
Nestled between the cushions is a small, black envelope.
I hear the shattering of ceramic before I realize that my mug is no longer in my hand.
A small yelp jumps from my throat as hot coffee splashes on my shins.
I frown at the brown streaks on my favorite cornflower blue, flannel pajama pants and matching slippers.
I sidestep around the pool of brown liquid and brightly colored fragments of the once floral mug to grab the envelope. It’s the same as before—a plain black envelope. Inside is another piece of paper with crudely torn edges. It’s written in the same forceful handwriting as the note from my mailbox.
Who knew my little bird was so naughty? I so enjoyed watching you touch my sweet pussy. Don’t worry. Soon, I’ll take care of that for you.
Realization hits me like a ton of bricks, almost dropping me to my knees.
This isn’t a joke or a misunderstanding; someone is watching me.
Bile heaves up from my stomach, coating my throat with a familiar burn.
I swallow hard, forcing it back down. My legs wobble as they drag me back inside where I sag against the door.
I run my shaking fingers through my hair, pausing at the back of my head with my face between my elbows.
Slow, uneven breaths vibrate through my chest.
I stare down at the message in my hands, reading it over and over until my eyes cross and the words bleed together.
My mind fixates on just two words: my pussy.
What the Hell does that mean? Why would it say my and not your?
Could this be a simple mistake by the hasty writer, or something more sinister?
My voice is an octave too high as I console myself. “Okay, okay. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. Just call the police and they’ll handle it.”
My breath catches and my eyes become wide as saucers as realization hits me.
I can’t show them this. It’s bad enough that some creep has already stolen away the sanctity of my privacy.
Someone watched me touch myself and I refuse to let everyone else know about it.
The thought of the local cops reading about it makes my cheeks hot and my stomach knot.
But I can’t just do nothing and expect this to go away.
I’ll file a report, but only tell them about the note from the mailbox.
It has to be enough for them to do something.
* * *
It’s around 3:00 in the afternoon when three loud knocks startle me.
Someone is at my front door. I grab the paperweight off my desk.
It’s a heavy, gaudy thing—a clear, glass bauble with a gold-dipped rose floating in the center.
The only thing that’s kept me from throwing it away is that it was a Christmas gift from Emily.
I never imagined I’d appreciate it as much as I do right now, if only because it’s hefty enough to hit someone with it.
Tiptoeing to the door, I duck under windows and peek around corners.
I wedge my face under the small window in the front door, peering up between the curtain and the glass.
At the sight of the sheriff standing on my porch, I blow out the breath I’d been holding since I got the note this morning.
The paperweight gives a hearty clunk as I drop it onto the small table next to the door.
I step out onto the porch and close the door behind me.
Sheriff Lynnfield’s eyes narrow under the thick brim of his hat.
Small-town politeness would insist that I should invite him inside and offer him a cup of tea, but my privacy has been invaded enough today.
I’m not exactly itching to give anyone a tour around my home.
He pulls off his hat and holds it to his chest. The tan lines between the wrinkles under his eyes tells a story of a summer fishing on the lake.
He clears his throat as he looks me up and down.
“Miss Moore,” he says my name like he’s spitting out spoiled milk.
I put on my sweetest voice. “Sheriff Lynnfield, nice to see you. I haven’t seen you since my mom died all those years ago,” I said, making sure to emphasize those last four words.
When I was a kid, the sheriff and my father were best friends.
Almost every weekend, they went on camping, fishing, and hunting trips, or out drinking.
Those weekends were a respite for Mom and I.
We were safe. When she died, the sheriff and his wife were practically leading the parade of tuna casseroles and well wishes.
Their attention faded after a few weeks.
I don’t know why, but Sheriff Lynnfield didn’t come back after that.
They abandoned their well wishes and sympathies when they left me alone with him.
He huffs out a little breath. “Well, tell me what the problem is.”
Handing him the black envelope, I explain that someone is watching me, maybe even stalking me. He inspects the note, flipping it back and forth between his plump fingers. I scowl as I watch his ungloved hands shove it into his back pocket instead of putting it into an evidence bag.
“Any other incidents?” he asks.
The question flops around in my head for a moment. Should I tell him the whole truth? No, I can’t bring myself to tell the man who once watched me play on the playground about the naughty note I found this morning. It’s too personal. With my eyes turned down to my shoes, I shake my head.
His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth. “Your daddy did always say you were dramatic. Seems like nothing to me, but if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll send one of my deputies to check on you for a few nights.”
“I would appreciate it,” I reply through gritted teeth.
He curtly nods back at me and the sting of forming tears burns in my eyes.
I press my eyelids shut, willing them to stay inside.
They remain closed as I listen to the creaking of the porch steps and the rumbling of the police cruiser as it pulls away.
When I open my eyes, the tears fall. My legs tremble as I sink to my knees.
Jumbled thoughts spin around in my mind, a tornado of anger and regret.
Why did I even bother? I should have known he wouldn’t believe me.
He didn’t believe me last time, either. Memories flash behind my eyes—the night Dad beat me until I could barely move.
It was the night I finally called for help, the night when nobody came.
I cry until my eyes have nothing left to give.
Sitting on the splintering wood slats, a breeze sweeps over my face, soothing my swollen eyes and raw, tear-stained cheeks.
I suck in the cold air until my lungs feel like they might burst. Forcing it out in a shaky sigh, I collect myself, along with the remnants of my favorite mug.
I have to keep going, I can’t fall apart.
* * *
The parking lot at Greenleaf Grocery is nearly empty when I arrive.
The usual afternoon rush died down hours before, leaving only a few evening shoppers scattered around the store.
I tuck my head under an old ball cap and keep my face low.
If my stalker is here, I have to make an effort to conceal my identity.
A shudder runs through me as the automatic doors open with a loud ping.
My knuckles whiten as I grip the handle of my shopping cart like it’s a rope tethering me to reality.
As if without it, I would slip entirely into the madness of paranoia.
My sneakers pad delicately over the checkered linoleum flooring as I make my way through the aisles.
Lessening my death grip on the cart, my hands shake uncontrollably.
I move slowly, as if methodical movements will make me less noticeable.
But the shaking in my fingers causes my hands to clumsily fumble and fail as I reach for my usual items, knocking them into my cart rather than grabbing them.
I list them off under my breath like a calming mantra—bread, lettuce, macaroni and cheese, chicken nuggets, and chicken salad.
At every sound, every passing person, my head swivels and my grip tightens again.
My mind races, tossing around the possibilities of who could be watching me—the middle-aged man in a ball cap browsing the cereal aisle, the security guard from the high school at the deli, the teenage bagger at the check-out counter.
It could be anyone. How long has the stalker been watching?
How many times have I been in this same store with them?
As a dizzy feeling washes over me. I realize that I’m breathing so fast that I’m starting to hyperventilate.
I pull my cart into the aisle of wines and liquors and steady myself against a display.
Three bottles of pink Moscato clink together as I set them down into the cart.
If there was ever a night for drinking, it’s this one.
As I approach the check-out counter, I feel a sense of relief when a white-haired woman behind the counter smiles at me warmly.
She’s not my stalker; not with her motherly smile and kind eyes.
My face pulls into a frown as I lay the items onto the belt.
This is why I like shopping when there’s hardly anyone around.
My pick of boxed, frozen, and premade food items fits the lifestyle of a young bachelor.
When you add in all the wine, it just looks sad.
The kindly woman seems to agree as she eyes my unfortunate haul.
The computer pings loudly as she scans each item. Grabbing the wine bottles she pauses. “Bad day, honey?” she asks with gentle concern.
I huff out a ragged breath. “Yeah,” I reply softly as the tears threaten to fall again.
She nods knowingly while placing my things into a paper bag. She packs the bag gingerly, as if the slightest sound might spook me. And to be honest, it probably would.
I suck in a deep breath as I leave the store, walking out into the unknown darkness of the nearly-vacant parking lot.
My nervous fingers stumble around, feeling for the electronic lock button on my key fob.
I run the last few feet to my car and all but dive into the driver’s seat, like a kid jumping into bed before the monster underneath can grab their ankles.
I drop the grocery bag into my passenger seat and drive home in silence. With every turn, I glance at my rearview mirror. I’d notice if someone were driving behind me, wouldn’t I? Would I know if I was being followed? I’ve never thought about it before.
My breath falls out in a relieved sigh when I find that the house looks just the same as I left it—doors closed and a few lights left on. I rush inside through the kitchen door, locking it behind me. I wiggle the knob, ensuring that it’s locked up tight.
The grocery bag plops onto the kitchen counter with a thunk and a clink.
Once I’ve put everything in its rightful place, I feel lighter.
The small sense of normalcy brings me back to myself.
That is until my eyes shift upward toward the small table in the corner of the kitchen.
There in the center, sits another small, black envelope.