Chapter Nine
Gemma
He’s been a dick to me both times I’ve spoken to him and then he randomly sends me some stupid personality test to take like we’re besties?
Me: Ummm. I’m not doing this.
Tristan: It’s the least you can do to repay me for my pain and suffering.
Me: Are you always so dramatic?
Tristan: According to this test, yes.
That piques my interest. If the test says he’s dramatic, then maybe I need to see what I am for having to put up with him.
Me: Fine. I’m thinking about going to Hemingford Hall. Did you want to go with me?
Tristan: No. You won’t get in. They allow private tours if you email them, but you won’t get in on such short notice.
I refrain from sending him the eye roll emoji. He thinks he knows everything and it’s super annoying. I’m a Park. Surely they’ll let me have a look. It’ll be nice to get started on the project rather than relying on Two for all my information.
Why does everyone get to call him Two, but I have to refer to him by his real name? God, he’s so freaking weird. Feeling rebellious, I change his name on my contacts just because I can. Asshole.
Before I take a trip to Hemingford Hall, I pop over to check my socials. Rocks of apprehension sit heavily in my stomach as I brace myself for anything weird.
Another message.
The sender keeps changing the numbers at the end and creating new profiles. I don’t know how they’re getting past the bots that block this sort of thing. I’m definitely going to have to have Jude look into it if they keep it up.
You look sad lately. Overwhelmed. Maybe you need someone to hold you and promise it’ll all be okay.
A shiver runs down my spine.
Yeah, this is definitely getting creepy. I want to reply back and tell the stalker to fuck off, but then I worry about it being a troll trying to entrap me. The trolls love pushing people until they break and lose their shit. I’m not going to give this person the satisfaction of a response.
Block and delete.
Before I can run off, I end up signing off on two different paid sponsorship contracts for a couple thousand each that’ll be due by the end of the month. I mark it on my calendar and then finally close out my phone, eager to do something with all this pent-up energy.
Two: Well???
I huff at his impatience.
Me: I’ll take the test in a minute if it means you’ll leave me the hell alone.
Two: K.
Stupid, infuriating man.
I pull up the link to the test and then quickly fly through all the questions. Once it emails me the results, I pop it open and read my personality type.
Type Three.
The Achiever.
Me: I’m a 3. Happy?
Two: I’m a 4. No.
Ugh.
I put my phone on Do Not Disturb and shove it into my Michael Kors handbag. My nail scrapes along the zipper and chips the paint on one corner. For a moment, I wonder if I should take the time to fix it but then decide checking out Hemingford Hall, while it’s still daylight, takes precedence.
“Gem, honey,” Mom says from my bedroom doorway. “Everything okay? I was changing the sheets in Dempsey’s room and heard you huffing.”
I still don’t know if it’s sweet or creepy that she keeps his room exactly as he left it. He moved out and is engaged to her best friend. Not sure why we can’t turn his room into a theater room or something fun.
“It’s just my partner for one of my projects. Frustrating.”
Mom smiles. “I’m sure you’ll figure out a way through it. You always do.” Her eyes dart to my purse. “Going somewhere?”
“Hemingford Hall. That’s the project site. I’m going to see if they’ll give me a tour.”
“You’re not going alone, though, right?”
I force a smile, lying through my teeth. “Of course not. My partner is meeting me up there. I’ll be fine, Mom.”
“I know you will,” she says, eyebrows knitting. “Keep your phone on, though, so I know where you’re at. You know how we worry.”
Worry is an understatement.
My parents think every time I leave the house I’ll be accosted and trafficked. While I know they do it because they care, I can’t help but wish they’d give me some credit to navigate the world just as my brothers do.
I give Mom a quick hug and then hurry out the door before she can ask any more questions. Dad isn’t around, which is a good thing. He’s better at sniffing out lies.
Once I’m in my car and cruising on the main road, I sigh in relief, feeling as though I just escaped prison. It’s not really a prison. I’m just being a brat. My parents go over and beyond when it comes to providing for us, but it doesn’t make it any less suffocating.
Blasting my favorite playlist, I make a pit stop at the coffee shop and then follow my navigation to the address I’d found for Hemingford Hall.
The lake where the building is located sparkles in the afternoon sun. Despite being January, it looks deceptively warm out. I sip my warm coffee and attempt to release the tension in my shoulders. By the time I reach Hemingford Hall, I’m feeling more like myself.
“Wow,” I mutter, looking through the windshield at the ancient, dilapidated property.
It’s huge, bigger than all the houses on our property combined, but looks as though it might get blown over the next time the wind rushes down the mountain. The location, though, is gorgeous. It’s a shame the owners haven’t done anything with the place.
I pull up next to an old truck and turn off my car. I’m feeling both inspired and overwhelmed as I take in the state of Hemingford Hall. Me and Two really have our work cut out for us.
Were the two best friends who built this place secret lovers? Ever since Two mentioned it, I keep wondering, eager to learn more about them.
I eventually climb out of the vehicle and make my way up to the massive mahogany door with inlaid stained glass. So beautiful. I bet this place was quite a stunner back in the day.
After knocking, I attempt to peek inside through the colored glass but can’t make out anything more than a few dark shapes.
“Hello?” I call out. “Anyone here?”
Nothing.
Well, Two did warn me I’d need an appointment.
I hate that he’s right.
It won’t hurt to take a quick look around, though, right? I start past the vehicles and begin peeking in windows. In some windows, the shades are drawn, but others reveal dusty rooms with sheet-covered furniture. Nothing too exciting or revealing. When I reach one end of the building, I turn the corner and walk along the shaded area. The wind whips along the side, biting into me through my stylish, but not exactly warm, leather jacket.
I should go home.
Another window reveals an office with ancient-looking books on shelves. I wonder if this was Alexander Heming’s office? Maybe it was Edgar Ford’s? Nothing from my vantage point discloses anything, so I keep making my way along the side until I reach the back of the building.
An older man with salt-and-pepper hair is chopping wood near a stump, his flannel-covered back to me.
I’m about to turn around and hurry back the way I came, but I’m busted when he looks over his shoulder, locking eyes with me.
“Oh, hi,” I squeak out, waving at him. “Are you the owner of this place?”
The man frowns at me, holding the ax at his side. I’m assaulted with images of that movie Dempsey made me watch when we were younger where Ryan Reynolds chased after his family with an ax just like that one. I had nightmares for a week.
“Sorry,” I say, taking a step back. “I can go.”
“Come here, girl. Speak up. I can’t hear a damn thing you’re saying.”
He’s no more than thirty feet away. Why can’t he hear me? Slowly, I approach him, nerves zinging through me. Maybe it’s just a ploy to chop me up and I’m falling for it.
“Hi, uh, I’m Gemma Park. I’m a student over at PMU.”
The man’s eyes narrow. “What do you want?”
“I’m doing a project on this property. Mr. Pederson said—”
“I don’t know a Mr. Pederson,” the man says, cutting me off.
“Well, uh, he said that this project was cleared by the owners. I’m sorry,” I say, taking a step back. “I can leave.”
The man huffs and tosses the ax to the ground. Thank God. “I just don’t know anything that goes on around here,” he mutters. “My wife gets us into some shenanigans we have no business being in.” He gestures at the building. “Hence this shithole.”
“Oh.” I give him a shaky smile. “I can come back another time.”
“She’ll be back here in just a few if you want to wait.” The man skims his gaze over my body before stopping at my face. “You’re freezing out here. We could wait inside together. I could give you a tour.”
I’m not easily scared by things, but I’m certain it’s never a good idea to go into a creepy building with a strange man alone. That might get me killed. Then Dad would raise me from the dead just to kill me all over again for being stupid.
Parks are not stupid.
“I appreciate that, but I have to get home now.” I give him an awkward wave. “Thank you for your time!”
He scowls at me, but I don’t wait around for a response. I power walk back the way I came, trying not to break out into a run. The man probably thinks I’m insane. When I round the corner to the front of the house, I see a black sedan speeding away.
Was that his wife?
I should have flagged her down and talked my way into a tour. These people are probably super nice. I’m just paranoid because of Dad, who thinks the world is out to get me.
With a heavy sigh, I head back to my vehicle. The hair on my arms stands on end when I see the door sitting open.
I closed it.
But I didn’t lock it.
I’d just shoved the keys into my jacket pocket, all too eager to get a closer look at this place. What if that person stole my new purse?
I rush over to the vehicle, my eyes darting over to my purse, which sits exactly in the same place. Relief floods over me until I see a cut, yellow buttercup-looking flower sitting in the cup holder. Beside it is an envelope.
After looking into the back to make sure nobody is hiding, I settle into my seat, close the door, and lock it. I turn the engine over to get heat pouring out of the vents. I’m tempted to sip my coffee, but what if the person who left this stuff for me poisoned it?
Quickly, I roll down the window and dump out the contents of my cup. Once I’m safe inside again, I pick up the envelope and tear it open.
You can block me all you want on social media, but it’s not so easy to block me in reality.
- The One Who Admires You the Most
Nausea roils in my gut, souring the coffee I did manage to consume.
This creepy stalker isn’t some strange person in their mom’s basement halfway across the world.
No, this person is here.
They know what I drive, who I am, and know exactly how to find me.
This just went from annoying to terrifying.