Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Noticing what's been left for me on my kitchen table, my breath leaves me all at once.
Panic blooms in my chest, squeezing like a vise around my heart.
I press my palm into the edge of the table, steadying myself against the wave of nausea that threatens to buckle my knees.
Through gritted teeth, my breath comes in short bursts.
My eyes flit wildly around the room, searching for any sign of the intruder.
Everything looks the same; everything else is as I left it.
The black envelope glares at me, daring me to explore its contents.
Its sleek, ebony lines taunt me, demanding that I open its elegant wrapping even though it promises to be filled with poison.
I nudge it gently with my fingers, as if it might sting to touch it.
I’ve clearly left my rational mind behind entirely, because I’m actually relieved to find that it doesn’t burn my hand.
I expel a deep, shuddering breath and open it to find the scrap of paper that I already know is inside. I grasp the edges of the note, pulling it out slowly, hoping that somehow it will disappear from between my fingers. I suck in a shaky breath, readying myself for what horror I might find.
My poor little bird, the police can’t save you from me. Call them again and someone dies.
The paper falls from my trembling fingers, fluttering to the floor. My thoughts race, desperately trying to navigate through the fear that’s clouding my mind. Shit, shit, shit. He knows that I called the sheriff. He knows and he’s been in my house. He’s actually come inside my freaking house.
I’m suddenly struck with the awareness that I’ve decided my stalker must be a man.
There’s something about the handwriting and the possessive tone of his notes.
That knowledge sends an increasing sense of dread flooding through me.
Not that it would be much better if I was being stalked by a woman, but I might have more of a fighting chance against one.
A crushing weight presses down inside my stomach, pulling me to my knees in a crumpled heap on the floor.
Hot tears prick my eyes. I blink rapidly, trying to force them away as my vision blurs.
Still, they spill over and cascade down my face.
With a clear goal suddenly forming in my mind, I crawl toward the cabinet under the sink.
If he’s going to kill me, I’m not going to be sober for the event.
My shaking hands fumble with the knob as I wrench it open and grab a bottle of wine.
I drop down onto my bottom and press my back against the refrigerator, allowing myself to be soothed by the comforting, mechanic hum.
Nearly an hour later, after draining most of the bottle of the sweet, pink alcohol, my mind descends into a cozy fog.
The tension in my muscles loosens as the fear begins to dissolve. I gulp down a few more swigs from the bottle. The room begins to spin, but that fear has disintegrated entirely, replaced by white hot anger. This is my home, my safe place, my freaking sanctuary, and some creep has been inside it!
I stand quickly, too quickly, in fact, which sends me toppling to the side.
My hip crashes against the fridge, rattling the contents inside.
I press my palms against my thighs as my vision settles and the floor unwinds into a mostly flat surface.
With all the determination I can muster, I stumble through the house, closing every curtain on every window.
“Can’t watch what you can’t see, you freaking creep!
” I exclaim triumphantly to the darkness beyond my living room window.
Satisfied that all the windows on the first floor are sufficiently covered, I turn out the lights and set my sights on the second floor.
On wobbly legs, I stumble up the stairs.
The old, wooden railing groans in protest as I use it to anchor myself.
When I reach the top, I press my hand against the wall in an attempt to reinforce that the room isn’t actually whirling around me.
Reeling and angry, I march into the guest bedroom and stand in front of the window.
I stare out into the darkness, where the psycho may be lurking.
“That fucking crazy bastard,” I spit venomously before pulling the curtains closed.
I swivel my body back toward the doorway with enough force that I fall against the open door.
An aching pain fans out across my chest as I stumble into my bedroom.
I frown at the small reading nook that sits just below the window.
It’s always been my favorite spot in the house, but now it feels tainted.
Despite the nagging thought in the back of my head that he might be out there, I allow myself a moment to stare out into the night.
On calm nights like this, the stars twinkle brilliantly like tiny lanterns floating in a black sea.
With a heavy sigh, I pull the curtains closed, blocking out his view, and unfortunately, mine.
Sheriff Lynnfield promised to have someone from the station drive by the house tonight, so at the very least, I’ll be safe while I’m asleep.
That thought, combined with the mellow haze of the wine, comforts me.
I shed my clothes and shoes, leaving only my tank top and panties before collapsing into bed.
I press my head into the pillow and wrap the soft sheets around me, pulling them to my chin.
Rubbing my cheek against the plush pillow, I’m suddenly keenly aware of how drunk I must be.
My bed smells different. It smells like vanilla and leather; a rich combination of sweet syrup and warm earth.
I pull the sheets closer, wrapping myself in that comforting scent as I drift off into a restless sleep.
* * *
The alarm clock screeches, and with every blaring beep, the throbbing in my head deepens.
My arm flails out wildly, slapping against my nightstand in an attempt to crush the source of the sound.
I smash my hand into the button on the clock until it stops.
My half-lidded, bleary eyes catch a glimpse of something small and white.
I blink away the blurriness to find a bottle of acetaminophen and a half-filled glass of water on the nightstand.
Recalling the events of last night, I don’t remember thinking clearly enough to be so well-prepared for my impending hangover, but I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
I pop the cap and swallow three of the bitter tablets before guzzling down all the water, the lukewarm liquid lessening the dryness in my mouth.
I press my hands into the mattress, pushing myself up to sit on the bed.
My stomach lurches in response, inducing an instant feeling of regret for how much wine I drank.
Shit, why is it so bright in here? Wait, actually, how is it so bright in here? My eyes widen with sudden, sobering clarity. I jump out of bed with such force that the mattress squeals. The sheet wrapped around my midsection ripples and dances to the floor.
“No, no, no, no, no,” I chant my panicked mantra as I pull on the dirty jeans left in a pile beside the bed.
My bare feet patter against the floor as I race through the house, poking my head into the doorway of each room.
By the time I reach the kitchen, my anxiety has peaked, morphing into a cold blob of terror that lines my now queasy stomach.
I closed every curtain in every window, but now, they’re all open.
A cold shiver runs through me. I wrap my arms around myself to stop the shaking in my limbs. The pounding in my head gives way to dizziness as chaotic and muddled thoughts bounce between my ears.
He's been in my house. Again. But worse than that, he's been in every room. He was in my bedroom while I slept. Did he…did he touch me?
I have no control over my mind as images flood in, as if displayed on an enormous movie screen.
I watch in horror, unable to look away. A man dressed in black and wrapped in shadows stands beside my bed.
His fingers dance along my skin, toying with my scantily clad body.
He grips my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pulling and pinching.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thoughts, but my body has already taken hold of them.
My stomach tightens as liquid heat pools in my core.
I press my thighs together to quell the ache developing between them.
I scowl, looking down at my body. “Are you freaking kidding me?
I know it's been a while. Okay. A long time.
But that's just sick!” I yell at the traitorous, horny thing between my legs.
I rummage through the kitchen junk drawer, throwing aside screwdrivers and rubber bands until I find the scrap of paper hidden beneath the random sea of stuff. Scribbled on it is the number for the sheriff’s office. The line rings twice before someone picks up.
A soft, feminine voice answers, “Page County Sheriff's Department. How may I direct your call?”
“Sheriff Lynnfield, please. It's important. This is Ava Moore.” My speech is quiet and unsteady.
The line clicks and rustles with static. A man clears his throat. “Ava,” Lynnfield grumbles, “what seems to be the problem?”
“My stalker. He's back. He's been in my house this time. He's been—”
“Alright, alright, calm down,” he responds in a condescending tone that you’d reserved for children and crazy people. “Look, it's probably just an ex-boyfriend trying to mess with you. I'll send someone by this afternoon to talk to you.”
“O-okay,” I manage to croak out before the line goes dead. My heart sinks in my chest and deflates like an old balloon. There’s a calmness that sweeps over the panicked screaming of my nerves, a recognizable sense of hopelessness. I’ve felt it before and I know it all too well.